


Things Like Chemistry

by americangrunge



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Bobby is the cinnamon roll teacher and Noah’s not a librarian, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Teacher AU, chelsea teaches art, there are multiple relationships going on with side characters, watch as an american butchers the uk school system
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americangrunge/pseuds/americangrunge
Summary: “Why don’t you talk to one of the chemistry teachers?” Noah offers around a large bite of his sandwich.“What? Why would I do that?”“Well, it's like you said." Noah pauses to swallow. “Baking is chemistry! Or whatever bullshit you told them, right? So if it’s going wrong, why don’t you just ask one of the chemistry teachers?”---Or, the one where Noah teaches English, Rahim is always putting his foot in his mouth, and Bobby, when he isn't preventing teenagers from setting themselves on fire, is really, really hot for teacher.On hiatus as of November 2020!
Relationships: Bobby McKenzie/Original Character(s), Bobby/Main Character (Love Island)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 151





	1. cheers

It’s the first day of term, and Bobby’s so nervous he might throw up.

He’d slept through his first two alarms because he’d stayed up too late worrying about any and everything that could go wrong. What if his students hated him? What if the rest of the faculty hated him? He’s dealt with aggy students before — he’s not sure he’d be able to cope if his coworkers didn’t like him, either. What if he set his classroom on fire and had to deal with the crippling embarrassment of being the teacher who burnt the whole school down so now everyone had nowhere to go? What if he got lost and was late to his own class and all the kids thought he was a total knob?

After finally dragging himself out of bed, he spent a few minutes ironing his infamous First Day of Term shirt: a long-sleeved black button-up with multicolored cupcakes all over it. His mum had gotten it for him ages ago, right after he left the hospital and got his teaching license. Over time it became His Shirt — the one that said ‘I’m a cool teacher, not one of them stuffy ones. You can swear in my classroom and I won’t give you detention.’ The kids always loved it.

Bobby continued going over possible outcomes for every one of his potential disaster scenarios as he got the kettle started and took a quick shower. He’d been entirely too naked and soaped up to care when his building’s fire alarm went off, so he rinsed off and poured himself a thermos of coffee and began the drive to school, ears ringing the entire way.

Now, as he’s three turns away from the faculty parking lot, thinking the morning could’ve gone better but it was nowhere near the worst start to a day he’s ever had, he hits a bump in the road and spills scalding hot coffee all over his trousers. He swears loudly and prays to whoever’s listening for his dick to be all right, grabbing for a wad of napkins as soon as he’s safely in a parking spot.

It’s the first day of term, and Bobby’s first day at his new school altogether, and he’d really been hoping to nail it. Instead, he reeks of coffee and might’ve burnt his dick off.

Since students aren’t set to arrive for another hour, Bobby ducks into a restroom to try and salvage whatever he can of his trousers. The stain is large and covers his entire groin and thighs, and the napkins had done close to nothing to sop up the mess. He can feel his upper thighs getting sticky. All he can do is throw his head back against the wall and pray his students, whoever they may be, aren’t brazen enough to point out his giant wet spot.

“Oh, sorry mate, didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Bobby’s eyes snap open and to his right, where a large man is taking up the entire doorway. He decides today — right now, more specifically — wouldn’t be the worst time to drop off the face of the earth. It’s the first day of term, and a fellow teacher has walked in on him with his groin stuck under the automatic hand dryer in the loo.

“All good,” Bobby replies, as nonchalant as possible, “just my yearly First Day of Term nerves. Made me piss my trousers and everything.”

The other guy snorts in laughter. “Yeah, I get those too, though I’ve never pissed myself. I’m Noah, by the way.” He extends his hand to Bobby, which he shakes. “You new?”

“Aye, first year here.”

Noah nods. “Ah, you must be the new Home Economics teacher. I’m in the English department myself.”

“That’d be me. Thought I’d start off my lessons this year with laundry.”

Noah chuckles again, and even though Bobby’s in a predicament, at least he ran into a cool coworker and not, like, some stuffy librarian or something. “I always keep a change of clothes in my car. I’m a little taller than you but if you cuff the trousers they should work.”

A fellow teacher had given him the same advice about a spare change of clothes during his first year teaching. Clearly he’s learned nothing, he thinks, as he hopelessly dabs what remains of his wet spot with another paper towel.

He doesn’t need to think twice about it. “I can rock the cuffed look.”

Noah was right: his trousers were a few sizes too big for Bobby, but it was better than coffee stains and sticky thighs. Surprisingly, they fit nice otherwise — fitted but not tight, and black to match Bobby’s cupcake shirt. He looks more put together than he did when he left his flat this morning.

The first few days go by smoothly. The kids had gotten a kick out of The Shirt and they all seem to like him. They laugh at his jokes and listen when he’s teaching and don’t text on their phones too much. They seem excited to show up everyday, which makes Bobby’s chest a little tight when he thinks about it once he’s home. He brings Noah a large coffee on the second day alongside his freshly washed and ironed trousers. They eat lunch together when they can and get on well. Bobby does a few terrible _Othello_ impersonations over a turkey sandwich and Noah threatens to make him do them in front of the English students.

Things are good. Bobby thinks this might be his year after all.

It’s only when he finally assigns his students their first big project that things start to go sour. Being the Home Economics teacher had its perks, and the biggest of all was no homework or essays. The downside, however, was having to supervise a dozen-ish teenagers using large kitchen appliances for the first time. Counting his own, it was way too many lives to be responsible for at once.

Scrambled eggs had been their first assignment. Bobby warned them of the dangers of salmonella and whatever else you got from eating raw eggs and handed out a sheet of paper with instructions. Keep the heat as low as possible and stir constantly, preferably with chopsticks. Just a little tip he’d picked up from culinary school.

The kids had all managed to fully cook their eggs and keep their eyebrows from singeing off, so he moved on to a dessert.

“You lot remember what I told you the first day?” Bobby asks, and he and the students all chorus together, “Baking is chemistry!”

He’d been surprisingly open with them, telling them about his time in culinary school and working in the hospital. He hadn’t gone into detail about all the bad parts and why he decided to become a teacher, but at least they knew they were in good hands when it came to the cooking lessons. He’d had to teach himself how to keep a clean home, since he’d been a bit of slob himself, but now that he was on his third year of teaching, he was finally starting to feel confident in his abilities.

“That’s right: baking is chemistry. Just a wee bit of the wrong ingredient and you might wind up with something you really, really don’t want to eat. For example, does anyone know what happens if you use too much baking soda?” He calls on a girl in one of the back workstations. “Amy?”

“Tastes like soap,” she responds.

“Bang on, Amy! That’s right, it will. It can also muck up the texture. Now, onto today’s lesson: chocolate chip cookies!”

He hands out another instruction sheet and gives them time to gather their ingredients, all the while fielding questions about using things other than chocolate chips or what would happen if they ate the raw dough.

Bobby mimes being stabbed with a sword as he laments, “Does no one remember my monologue about salmonella?!”

Once everyone has all their ingredients measured out (Bobby had also stressed the importance of _mise en place_ on Day Two), he goes over the differences between baking soda and baking powder once more before they sift together all their dry ingredients.

“And which one are we using for this recipe?” he asks, hands folded behind his back as he strolls around the classroom.

The responses sound like “sour” or “poda” and, okay, maybe this year is going to be longer than Bobby originally thought.

Somehow, everything goes wrong. Some of the cookies are flat, round discs. Others have quadrupled in size and are raw in the middle. A few had been forgotten in the oven and are burnt to a black crisp, cemented to the baking sheet, and some students had set their ovens to the wrong temperature altogether. Only a handful of students have an edible finished product, and it’s at this moment Bobby wonders if his obviously subpar teaching is the reason funding for home economics programs are getting cut all across the world.

Most of his lunch hour is spent whining to Noah, who he figures owes him a favor since Bobby had listened to him whine over last week’s essay marks. He’d been in a right state over them being so poor, and Bobby had to remind him that no one actually likes _Beowulf_ or _The Canterbury Tales_ , let alone can understand it. Noah is just as unsympathetic about Bobby’s cookie nightmare.

He’s never been one to take his work home with him, so he does his best not to think about it there. He spends his Saturday in a corner booth at the pub down the street with his mates, the conversation void of work talk. Sunday is spent baking his own chocolate chip cookies, just to make sure he still has it, and he tries not to gloat out loud to no one when they come out perfect (of course). He texts a photo to his mum just because she’s always proud of him.

Monday brings about a new week and a new curriculum. He dedicates one day to budgeting, one to health education, and spends Wednesday and Thursday teaching them simple recipes he thinks they might actually eat in between cheese toasties and cereal. He teaches them how to tell if produce is fresh and has them juice some oranges so they know what proper orange juice tastes like. They all squeal and pretend to gag at the pulp, and even if they can’t bake, Bobby really likes these kids. On Friday, he doesn’t send them home with any homework, but asks them to spare an hour or two of their weekends to watch _The Great British Bake-Off: Masterclass._ The following week they’d be baking again, and he wanted them to feel more confident this time ‘round.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, noticing a few panicked expressions, “it’s okay if baking’s not your thing. You’ve all done great work so far, there’s lots more to be proud of!"

“Says the pastry chef,” another of his students, David, says. His classmates either groan in agreement or chuckle.

Bobby sits on his desk. “David, you’re on the footy team, yeah?” David nods. “And were you good at that right away?”

David shifts in his seat. “No, not really.”

“It’s the same with baking. Or learning any new skill, really. It takes time and practice, and luckily we’ve got a whole school year to do that.”

“Why can’t we just use box mix?!” someone shouts out.

It’s Bobby’s turn to chuckle. “Because box mix is for cowards, and we’re not a bunch of cowards, are we?”

“Yes,” the class says nearly in unison.

Bobby laughs harder this time. “Trust me, I’ll turn you lot into bakers yet. I’ve decided Monday will be Muffin Monday. I’ll be bringing in some fresh fruit to toss in, so please let me know before you leave if you’ve got any allergies!”

Truth be told, Bobby had been excited at the prospect of Muffin Monday. It rolled off the tongue and sounded like an actual thing, like Taco Tuesday. Of course, there hadn’t been an episode of _Masterclass_ on muffins, since they were fairly novice, but he’d really just wanted the kids to know it was okay to make mistakes and to just have fun learning. He wanted his classroom to be a safe space — one where they didn’t need to feel the pressure of having perfect marks, one where they could accidentally turn their stand mixers on too high of a speed and cover themselves in flour or powdered sugar and laugh about it. Really, just the kind of class he’d needed as a teenager, before he used singing in a punk band in dingy clubs as an outlet. God forbid his students ever found out about that.

Noah texts him late Sunday evening, asking for Bobby’s opinion on his lesson plans for the upcoming week. He’d started doing that ever since Bobby voiced his opinion on Chaucer and now the Bronte sisters, who bored Bobby just as much.

_Wuthering Heights, mate? Gonna toss myself off a Heathcliff just thinking about it_

**Fuck off** , Noah wrote back. **What do you even know about gothic feminist literature anyway?**

_About as much as you if you think a bunch of teenagers are actually gonna read that shite book_

**What’s the last book you even read?**

Bobby can picture Noah’s shocked yet furious expression as he writes back _The power of now by Eckhart Tolle_

Noah doesn’t text him for the rest of the evening.

“Hope you lot saved room for breakfast because it’s officially Muffin Monday!” Bobby shouts excitedly as he strolls into his classroom on Monday morning. He has two tote bags filled to the brim with all sorts of fresh produce, muffin liners, and a few boxes of gluten-free flour in case anyone needed it.

There’s a chorus of groans but they seem to be in decent spirits despite it being way too early on a Monday. They take turns coming to the front of the classroom to grab cartons of fruit and their instruction sheets, of which Bobby made one for regular muffins and a separate sheet for those using the gluten-free flour.

“Now, what’s one thing we have to be careful of when cooking with fruit?” Bobby asks, perched atop his desk once again. No one answers. “No one? Okay, well, excess moisture for one. Fruit has a lot of water in it, especially things like strawberries. The second thing you want to be careful of is sinking. Large pieces of fruit especially are going to weigh a lot more than your batter, so they have a tendency to sink to the bottom and you’ll have a poor distribution of fruit. Does anyone know how to counter that?”

Much to his surprise, a hand quickly juts into the air and starts wiggling frantically. He nods. “Cover them in flour!”

“Get in! Yes, tossing them in a tablespoon or two of flour will help keep them from sinking.” Against his better judgment, he also adds, “No soggy bottoms for you lot!”

They try to hide their laughter.

“Alright, you should all have your ingredients at your stations. Remember to measure out all your ingredients beforehand to save yourself some time. Prep and cook time are both roughly 20 minutes each, so you should all have plenty of time. Feel free to get started and come find me if you have any questions!”

The hour Bobby gives them goes by in a flash. Only a handful of students had asked questions (“Mr. McKenzie, does this look right?” or “Mr. McKenzie, what do I do if I set my liners on fire?”) The classroom smells like freshly baked muffins this time instead of the charred remains of what once were cookies, so his hopes are a bit higher once he calls time. He’d started doing _Bake-Off_ style gradings, where he has the pairs of students bring their finished products to his personal workstation at the front of the class. Really, they only got graded on whether or not they completed the assignment, but the kids get a kick out of his Paul Hollywood impersonation so he keeps it up. Sometimes he can hear them whispering about being the first ones to get a handshake.

“Claire and Dev, please bring me your showstopper muffins.”

The pair giggle as they carry their cooling rack to the front of the classroom. They’d gone with a classic blueberry muffin, and much to Bobby’s pleasure, they’d listened to his suggestion about tossing the fruit in some flour to keep from sinking.

“Perfect distribution of fruit, you two,” he says in his Paul Hollywood voice. It’s a comical departure from his normal Scottish lilt. “A little over-mixed, but that’s quite a nice muffin you’ve got there. Great work.”

They high-five their classmates as they walk back to their workstations, and Bobby calls the next pair of students up for judging. Both of the boys were the typical class clown types, but they did surprisingly good work. They reminded Bobby a lot of himself. Except now, when they’re presenting under-baked, sticky rhubarb muffins.

“What do we have here?” Bobby asks, turning a muffin over and running a plastic knife alongside the bottom of the muffin liner. “Oh no, the dreaded soggy bottom!”

“Noooo!” the boys cry out in unison.

“Not bad otherwise, lads, just a wee bit too wet.”

The next two pairs of students present muffins as dry as the desert, and Bobby has to choke down both offerings and sneak sips of tea in between. Pair number five has nearly flawless banana chocolate chip muffins, but they’d been overachieving since the first day of term. Pair number six has nothing but inedible raw goop in sopping wet muffin liners. The last pair forgot the baking soda.

Over his lunch break, he mopes into his salad and goes over in his head all the ways his life has gone wrong. Noah’s either forgotten about or has forgiven Bobby’s comments on _Wuthering Heights_ and at least pretends to listen as Bobby tells him all the ways Muffin Monday went wrong.

“So your students aren’t great bakers?”

“I mean,” Bobby starts, swallowing a forkful of lettuce and cucumber, “they’re not bad, yeah? Most of them are decent. But—“

“The bad ones are really bad,” Noah finishes. Bobby has always felt guilty speaking poorly of his kids, especially during the first month of the term when almost all of them are new to cooking and baking and doing adult-like things, but Noah has marked enough god-awful essays to no longer care about tact.

“I just… Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?”

“Why don’t you talk to one of the chemistry teachers?” Noah offers around a large bite of his sandwich.

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Well, it’s like you said.” Noah pauses to swallow. “Baking is chemistry! Or whatever bullshit you told them, right? So if it’s going wrong, why don’t you just ask one of the chemistry teachers?”

Bobby thinks this isn’t a half-bad idea. “I don’t know any of them, though. You’re my only mate here.”

“Neither do I,” Noah shrugs. “Some of my students talk about this one science teacher, though. Apparently she’s, uh… nice.”

One of Bobby’s eyebrows raises involuntarily. “Nice how?”

“Like, _you know._ ”

“Oh, like, they think she’s hot?” Noah nods. “Well, is she for sure the chemistry teacher? I can just look her up in the faculty directory.”

“Don’t know what she teaches, mate, just that it’s science.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Do you at least know her name, then?”

“Nah. It’s something really long, though. The kids just call her by her initials.”

Bobby checks his watch. His lunch hour is almost over, but he has a free period next that he typically uses to prepare ingredients for the rest of his classes. “Fat lot of good you are. I’ll just check the science department for a lass with a really long name, then.”

Noah gathers his trash and messenger bag. “Good luck with that, Bobs. See you tomorrow.”

As quickly as he can, Bobby jogs back to his classroom and gets to work divvying up ingredients and the necessary bakeware. It takes up the bulk of his free period, but he finishes with enough time to park at his desk and go through the faculty directory like he’d told Noah he would.

The science department is small — only about ten teachers across multiple disciplines: earth science, physics, chemistry, biology, and astronomy. Only four of the ten were women, and only one had such a long name he wouldn’t dare try to pronounce it. Her classroom is just down the hall from his (another perk of being the Home Ec teacher: being in the science wing thanks to all the ovens and large appliances) so he makes a mental note to try and find her toward the end of the day.

Bobby does three more classes worth of Muffin Monday before the end of the day. He usually spends an hour or two at his desk catching up on paperwork or lesson plans or marking, sometimes answering emails from students or parents, but today he packs up his laptop and sets off in the direction of the mystery science teacher’s classroom.

He rounds the corner to the east wing of the floor and stops outside the office the internet told him belonged to her. A nameplate next to the door says _M. Chrzanowski_ — Bobby wouldn’t dare attempt it so he figures he has to have the right room. The door is open and it definitely looks like a science classroom inside, so he wanders in, knuckles tapping lightly on the wall as he enters.

A woman appears from a separate door at the back of the room and, yeah, he gets it now.

“Oh, hello. Can I help you?”

Bobby just blinks. Instantly, he’s a teenager again, all heart palpitations and bumbling words and shaky hands. Noah’s students were right — she’s gorgeous, and Bobby immediately feels like a complete nonce for being in her classroom.

“Uh, hi,” he manages to choke out. “I’m, uh, the — the new Home Ec teacher?”

She cracks a smile. “Was that a question?”

“No! No, I’m definitely the new Home Ec teacher.” He hears his mum scolding him in his head and he’s quickly across the classroom offering her his hand to shake. “My name’s Bobby.”

“Ah, yes, I think I’ve heard my students talking about you.”

“Good things, I hope?” he asks, his hands shoved into his pockets. Mostly to hide the sweat.

“Let’s just say I’ve heard you’ve got one hell of a Paul Hollywood impression.” Bobby turns a shade of crimson yet to be discovered. She laughs at his embarrassment and all Bobby can think is that it sounds like a song. “So, what brings you to my classroom, Mr. Bobby?”

“McKenzie,” he says out of instinct. “And, uh, well…”

Before he can help himself, he’s launching into a recap of the last three weeks. He tells her all about his students — the ones that are doing well and those that could use some work and how he plans to turn them all into expert bakers. He tells her about meeting Noah on his first day and how he’d had to borrow his trousers, which was not his typical method of meeting new people, but at least he’d been able to make a friend out of it. He tells her about Baking Fail Number One: Cookie Edition and the sequel, Baking Fail Number Two: Muffin Monday.

“Basically, Noah said I should ask the chemistry teacher what I’m doing wrong. You know, since baking is chemistry and all.”

She’s quiet for a moment, taking in all the word vomit Bobby had just spewed at her. Then, finally, she says, “You know I’m not a chemistry teacher, right?”

“Oh,” is all Bobby manages to say. He should’ve known better than to listen to Noah about anything. The bloke irons his socks, for fuck’s sake.

“I teach biology. And sometimes anatomy and physiology to the kids who sign up for it as an elective course.”

“Bi…ology,” Bobby repeats, as if the word is foreign and he’s never heard it before. “Right, of course. Biology.”

She looks at him with an amused expression. “I can point you in the direction of the chemistry teacher if you’d like.”

“I… No, that’s all right. I don’t… I should probably go. I’m sure I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

He turns on his heel to leave, already feeling dumber than dumb. Of course Noah would point him in the complete wrong direction and he’d make a fool out of himself in front of the hottest teacher in the whole school. Why couldn’t the teacher with the impossible name be a middle-aged man who was extremely kind and not at all intimidating and knew a lot about baking? And was _actually_ a chemistry teacher.

“Mr. Bobby?”

“McKenzie,” he says instinctually again.

She cocks a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. Which Bobby has already noticed are a striking shade of blue. Which contrast beautifully against her dark, wavy hair, he has also noticed. “All I said was that I’m a biology teacher, not that I don’t know anything about baking.”

He pauses in the doorway. “Oh.”

“I mean, all I _do_ know is what I’ve seen on _Bake-Off_ , but I have made some pretty good cakes from box mix.”

“Which is for cowards,” he replies before he can stop himself.

She laughs out loud — really barks one out — and Bobby finds himself chuckling, too. “Those are some pretty strong words from someone whose students can’t even bake cookies.”

Bobby feigns being shot in the chest and stumbles a few steps backwards. “Ouch…”

“MC,” she answers. “My first name’s Magdalena, and I’m sure you’ve seen my nightmare of a last name. The kids just call me MC so they don’t have to even try it.”

“It’s certainly a mouthful.”

“Would sure be funny to hear you try it with that accent of yours,” she replies, finally moving from her spot outside the closet toward her desk. She gathers up her things, grabbing a stack of papers Bobby assumes are exams she has to mark, and they make their way toward the car park together.

MC makes small talk the entire way, telling Bobby funny stories from her first year teaching. She’d actually gone by Ms. Chrzanowski then, she told him, and it’d taken the students until December before they’d finally started pronouncing it correctly. Most had given up by October and shorted it to Ms. C on their own, and from there it was shortened again to MC.

“Probably not the most professional, but I kind of like feeling equal with the kids, you know?”

“Totally agree,” Bobby responds. “Most of them call me Mr. Bobby, and I correct them sometimes, but I don’t want to be crotchety, either.”

She leans into him slightly, bumping him with her shoulder. “Don’t think you could be crotchety if you tried. You should’ve seen the last Home Ec teacher. What a dreadful old bat she was.”

“Yeah?” Bobby asks, trying to hide his excitement that he wasn’t one of _those_ teachers. “She was bad, then?”

“Aye,” MC responds. “Probably older than the bloody dinosaurs, which was ironic considering she didn’t believe in them—“

“What?” Bobby shrieks.

“Oi, she drove the science teachers absolutely nuts. Used to teach the kids out of this textbook from the ‘50s, too. Made them cook things out of Jello molds. The science wing used to reek for days.”

They’re in the car park now, standing by a green Prius Bobby assumes is MC’s. She can see the joke on his tongue and glares at him playfully. “One of us has to save the dinosaurs, you know.”

“Mm,” Bobby hums. “If only you and your green Prius had been around a few million years ago. They could’ve used you then.”

MC unlocks the doors from her keyring. “Better late than never.” She pauses to give him a curious smile. “Well, this is me, obviously. I’m off to the coffee shop for a thrilling hour of exam marking and an extremely strong espresso.”

“Marking? Oh, yeah, same with me. So much marking,” he lies. He’s never assigned anything he’s had to mark outside of class.

“The worst, isn’t it? Want to join me, then? Might not be so dull if we struggle though it together.”

Bobby chews the thought over in his mind, trying to figure out what he’s going to do when he shows up empty-handed. He could fudge the truth a little, say he forgot it in his classroom or that it’s all online, but he hates lying and isn’t particularly good at it anyway. Coffee sounds almost too good to pass up, however, so he writes it off as being a problem for Future Bobby to solve.

He wants to text Noah and ask for advice. They don’t even know each other all that well, but he’s the closest thing he’s got to a best mate and Bobby’s insides feel like they’re upside-down and inside-out when he thinks about spending more one-on-one time with MC. It’s been ages since he’s had a girlfriend or even just a crush so yeah, he’s bricking it. He’s not even sure if this is allowed, popping off to coffee shops together. He knows it’s got to be against the rules to date a coworker, but this isn’t a date, right? They’re just two colleagues commiserating over marking at the same time at the same place.

Except Bobby doesn’t have any marking to do and he’s lying. But no one really needs to know that apart from him.

Regardless of his nerves, he agrees to meet her at a small coffee shop on the other side of town. MC goes there quite often, he learns, and she assures him they won’t bump into any students there. He spends the drive fumbling with the radio to give his hands something to do to expend their nervous energy.

He knows this is a bad idea. He really, truly knows it, but he doesn’t care.

MC gets to the shop first and tucks away in a back corner. She’s already got a cup of espresso and her stack of papers piled high on the wood table, and Bobby notices she’d popped on a pair of square-framed glasses before he arrived. His knees go weak a little at the sight of her. Professional and very, very dangerous. She looks like she could ruin his life, and she damn well might.

He orders himself a latte and joins her at the table, embarrassed by his lack of giant paper stack.

She raises an eyebrow at him that he barely sees over her large frames. “No marking after all?”

His cheeks grow warm. “I lied,” he admits. “I don’t really, uh… assign things that require marking. Most of my grades are in-class projects.”

Her gaze returns to the exam she’s marking as she smirks. “The joys of being the Home Ec teacher, eh?”

“Something like that,” he says. “If you have an extra answer key I could, um, help you? With your marking?”

“You know anything about cell structure?”

“About as much as you know about baking,” he quips. “I also happen to know the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

MC laughs and hands him an answer key. “At least mark it in red pen so they look consistent. And don’t you dare tell anyone you marked my exams.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bobby says, fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute.

They sit at the table for hours, drinking too much caffeine and talking animatedly. The stack of exams gets smaller and smaller, and Bobby almost feels like a proper teacher for the first time in his life. Truth be told, he’d always felt a bit left out of the “true” teacher experience because his was so different from his colleagues’. He didn’t have exams or essays to mark, he couldn’t really assign homework. Sometimes he’d give his students a final project at the end of the year that combined all the elements he’d spent the year teaching, but that was the closest he got to struggling through midterms and finals like the rest of his coworkers.

“So what made you get into teaching?” MC asks, finishing up one more exam. Bobby feels a sense of pride as another student gets a passing grade. He hadn’t marked a bad exam yet.

Bobby feels his expression falter just a bit. “I, uh… I used to be a hospital caterer back in Glasgow.”

“Yeah? Did you like doing that?”

“Working in a kitchen is nice,” Bobby answers. “I mean, it’s what you want to do after you finish culinary school, right? And maybe working in an actual restaurant would’ve been brilliant and I would’ve stuck with it, but I just…”

MC finally looks up at him, her expression pillow-soft. “All right?”

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s just… I never really got used to the bad parts of working in a hospital, you know? I spent a lot of time there and I met a lot of people. And that part was great — I loved the other lads in the kitchen and the rest of the staff was great, no two days were ever really the same, but…” He takes a moment to catch his breath. “Sometimes if the orderlies were busy I’d run the meals up to the floors or to certain patients who had special diets. A lot of them latched onto me because I’m this proper bubbly, funny bloke, right? Which was fine. If I could make them smile when they were feeling so low I felt like a king. But I always had to remind myself not to get too attached, because sometimes you’d call the charge nurse and ask if so-and-so needed their breakfast and they’d tell you that patient passed away. It started really taking a toll on me mentally, so I eventually had a breakdown and told my mum I needed to do something else.

“And, like I said,” he continues, trying to release the tightness in his chest, “maybe if I would’ve opened a bakery or worked in a restaurant kitchen it would’ve worked out fine, but I was just…”

“Burnt out?” MC offers.

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “Burnt out.”

MC returns her attention back to her marking, which Bobby is thankful for. He’s on the verge of tears and feeling silly for being so emotional. He’d been spending all of his lunch breaks with Noah for almost a month and he’d never even gotten close to telling him about his time at the hospital.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, the kids love you.”

Bobby’s chest tightens all over again. “What?”

“They do,” she says, offering a small smile. “A few of them have class with me right after you and they’re always raving about you and your lessons. I don’t know how you stumbled into teaching but you’ve got a gift, Mr. Bobby.”

“McKenzie,” he retorts. “And I’d say you do as well, judging by these exam marks. Not a failing one yet.”

MC locks eyes with him and raises her third cup of coffee into the air, waiting for him to do the same. “Well, then! To us being great teachers and shaping our country’s youth into perfect bakers who are also good at science.”

“Cheers!"


	2. party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah invites Bobby to a party.

Noah has the decency to last a whopping four minutes into their shared lunch before he can no longer help himself and starts giggling.

Bobby’s stood at the microwave with his back to the English teacher, already feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. Of course he knows _why_ Noah’s giggling, he’s just already decided not to acknowledge it. It’d only encourage him, and Noah’s already smug enough.

Except there _is_ a small part of Bobby that’s curious. He hadn’t told Noah about going to the coffee shop with MC so he had to have found out somehow. And what if MC had said something about it — about _him_? It’s all very preteen of him, but if Bobby is going to have a crush on the hot biology teacher, he’s going to commit and go all-out. It isn’t in Bobby’s genes to do anything half-assed.

The microwave beeps, pulling Bobby away from his daydreams of having a requited crush. Noah’s still sat at the table giggling, and Bobby finds himself wishing he’d just worn the coffee-stained trousers on that first day. At least he’d be spared of this.

“Got something you want to say, Noah?” Bobby asks as he takes a seat across from him. They’re the only two to ever use this particular faculty lounge at this time, for which Bobby is suddenly quite thankful.

Noah snorts another laugh as he tries to suppress it. “Nah, mate, I’m good.”

“Yeah? You sound like you’ve got quite a lot you’d like to talk about. Might be good to get it out.”

“All good over here.”

Bobby tries to act nonplussed — he really, truly does. He tries to let Noah’s knowledge of something he isn’t supposed to know roll off his shoulders as if he couldn’t care less, but he feels it bubbling just beneath the surface. He has to know who told him, how he found out…

If MC said anything about him that might be useful to know.

“Fine,” Bobby says, slamming his palms onto the table. “Spill. What do you know?”

Noah doesn’t even look up from his phone as he answers. “You know exactly what I know.”

“Aye, I know you know that I know what you know. What I want to know is _how_ you know. Who told you?”

“Chelsea.”

Bobby’s stunned into silence. “Who the fuck is Chelsea?”

Noah looks at him as if he’s sprouted another head. “ _Chelsea_ Chelsea. The art teacher.”

“I’ve not met any art teachers, mate. How’d Chelsea know, then? Why are there art teachers out there who know my business?”

“All the teachers know each other’s business. S’just how it is.” Noah takes a long pull from his hydroflask, because of course he has one of those, and resumes scrolling on his phone. “And I’d suppose Chelsea knows because her and that science teacher are, like, totally besties.” He jacks his voice up a few octaves and pretends to toss non-existent hair over his shoulder as he says that last bit.

Bobby’s palms are suddenly sweaty again. “And Chelsea told you?”

“Nah, she told Priya.”

“Who the fuck’s Priya?”

“Maths. Jeez, mate, you really don’t know anyone else here, do you?”

All Bobby can do is stare. “I’ve been here all of three weeks. So MC told Chelsea who told Priya and Priya’s told you, then?”

“Nah, Priya told Rahim who told me.”

“Rahim?” Bobby squeaks out, now drowning in embarrassment. 

“P.E. teacher.”

“Didn’t ask,” Bobby says quickly. “Christ, man, how many people know about it?”

“Just those three, I think. Oh, and me. So aside from you and MC, four total.”

“Wow, mate, you should be the maths teacher ‘round here,” Bobby grumbles. He stabs a fork at his leftovers without much conviction. He’s not so hungry anymore. “Why the fuck do you all know, anyway? All we did was get coffee.”

“Mm, for three hours.”

Bobby’s cheeks grow warm. “There were a lot of exams to mark, all right?”

“Sure,” Noah shrugs, a smile threatening to break out, “whatever you say, Bobs.”

_You should let this go and stop making it worse for yourself,_ Bobby thinks. This is some weird Streisand Effect thing and the more he talks about it, and the bigger a deal he makes it, the worse it’s going to be for him. They’d only gone to the coffee shop the night before and now four new people know about it. So far as Bobby’s concerned, that’s four too many.

Noah finally looks up from his phone and looks at Bobby, who’s clammy and has lost a bit of color in his face. He does genuinely like Bobby, thinks he’ll fit in just fine with the rest of the faculty, and he suddenly feels guilty for ribbing him. “Hey, it’s really not a big deal, okay? Chelsea’s just got a huge mouth and Priya and Rahim have this _thing_ on the low so I’m sure it just slipped out naturally, and…” He stops, realizing it’s doing fuck-all. “And this is just making it worse.”

“A bit, yeah.”

Sighing, Noah locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket. “Look, I went to uni with Rahim — he’s a good sort. I saw him this morning and he asked if I wanted to grab lunch but I told him I usually eat in here with you, and he was all like, ‘Oh, the new bloke Bobby? The one that went to the coffee shop with MC last night?’ and it just went from there. But you’re right, all of us gossiping about it wasn’t on and it wasn’t nice for me to laugh about it.”

“Thanks,” Bobby says quietly. His stomach still feels queasy so he stands on shaky knees to dump the rest of his lunch in the bin. He’s teaching the kids how to cook tacos later; maybe some of them will be edible.

Noah checks the time and starts gathering his things again. “Would it help if you met them? I mean, this is probably awkward, but I think you’d genuinely like everyone.”

It would be nice to have more than one friend, Bobby thinks. “Aye, that’d be cool.”

“Sick,” Noah says. “Priya is throwing a get-together this Friday at hers for all us teacher friends. You’ll be my plus-one.”

Bobby flutters his eyelashes at him. “Aw, you romantic git, I’d love to be your date.”

“Think you’ve had enough dates this week, Bobs!” Noah yells over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway toward his classroom.

It’s the third week of term and all Bobby has done is feel embarrassed and blush a lot.

He spends his free period as he always does: preparing for his final three classes of the day. One of his students in his second to last class is vegetarian so he does a bit of reading up on meatless taco recipes after he gets everything sorted and handed out. He makes a note for himself to try airing out the classroom after his next class so at least it’ll smell a little less like cooked meat and he tries not to stress over whether or not he’s doing enough.

After the bell rings and most of his students are seated at their workstations, Bobby hands out their instructional sheets and spends a few minutes talking about food safety.

“Does anyone know how long you can safely store ground beef in the freezer?” No one offers up an answer. “Four months. Now, knowing that, can anyone guess how long it’s safe to keep ground beef in the refrigerator?” There’s a few grumbles in response. “Who thinks it’s longer than a few days?” Most hands go up. “A month?” Less hands. “More than a month?” No hands.

“The answer is one to two days,” he says. “Quite a difference, yeah? Knowing things like this is helpful if you’re shopping on a budget. If you see a shop’s having a sale on meat but you know you’re not going to use it straight away, it is safe to store it in the freezer. My suggestion would be to put it in a freezer-safe bag with the date written on it so that you’ll know how long you’ve got before it’s no longer safe to eat.”

He smiles to himself as he sees the kids jotting down notes. Bless them.

“Now,” he continues, “has anyone cooked ground beef before?” A few hands go up. “Brill! The thing with ground beef is that it’s already quite fatty. If you look at the packages at your stations, it tells you right there on the front what percent fat it is. The less fat, the more ‘lean’ the meat is. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you lot all this is because you don’t normally have to add any oil to the skillet when cooking ground beef unless it’s quite lean or you’re using a skillet that isn’t non-stick.

“You’ll notice you have colanders at your stations. Because ground beef is so fatty, there will be quite a bit of grease in the pan once it’s done cooking. The colander is to drain all that fat and grease from the meat. Just pop them in your sinks and transfer your cooked ground beef into it once it’s done cooking. You’ll also notice I’ve not given you any pre-packaged taco seasoning. Anyone want to venture a guess as to why?”

“It’s unhealthy?” a girl in the front row offers.

“Bang on! Enough sodium to knock a horse on its arse. It’s much healthier to make your own, plus it tastes a lot better. You should all have an assortment of spices at your stations. The measurements are in the instructions. Once you’ve got them all measured out, just mix them all together and dump it over the meat. Tacos are dead simple, so I figured thirty minutes was more than fair. As always, come find me if you’ve got any questions!”

Time flies by, much like it always does, and half an hour later the classroom smells of cooked ground beef. Bobby had considered cranking it up a notch and teaching them some knife skills so they could chop an onion or some cilantro but decided against it. It’s only Tuesday and he’s already had enough excitement for the week — a student accidentally chopping off a digit would send him over the edge. Permanently.

Once all seven pairs of students were done cooking, Bobby took his usual spot at the front of the class for judging. “Before I get into this, does anyone know why I had you lot make tacos today?” The kids are quiet, avoiding eye contact. “Well, it _is_ Taco Tuesday, but also because they’re _easy_. Cooking doesn’t have to be some super complicated, involved thing, yeah? You don’t have to be Gordon bloody Ramsay. You don’t even have to be good at it, but knowing how to cook for yourself is an important skill. Takeaway is expensive and unhealthy, and nine times out of ten you can cook the same meal at home and it’ll taste much better. Now, excuse me as I step off my soapbox and enjoy some tacos.”

They’re good. Bobby almost can’t believe it, but they’re all _good_. A few were slightly greasy and made him feel like he was wearing lip balm, but unlike all the disasters he’s had with baking assignments, the tacos proved themselves to be damn near foolproof. The kids are chuffed to have finally done something correctly, and once the bell rings and they’re dismissed from class, he can hear them celebrating amongst themselves that they can actually cook something.

He doesn’t miss the way his heart swells. He has to try really hard not to cry.

Vegetarian tacos take up his next class. He’d made sure to grab a few different vegetables and a few cans of beans, and once again all the students’ tacos turn out quite well. A few of them even comment on how good they are without the meat, which Bobby seizes as an opportunity to wax poetic about the importance of vegetables and balanced meals.

“And, no, pizza is _not_ a vegetable,” he grumbles, answering a question he knew was on the tongues of many students.

After the final bell rings, Bobby hangs around to finish some washing up and get the next day’s lesson ready. He packs up whatever food is left over and stacks it neatly in his tote bags. All the small, individual trash bags get tossed into a single, much larger bag that Bobby sets outside the door to his classroom. He’s never met the custodian, but he hopes that makes his job a little easier.

Once he’s finished putting in grades for the day, he collects his things and locks up his classroom. Briefly, he considers stopping by MC’s room but decides against it, worried he’ll come off as a creep. Maybe all the teachers _are_ friendly with one another, especially the younger ones, but he knows he’s not on that level with them yet.

He rounds the corner en route to the stairwell, arms already tired from carrying the totes of food, when he catches a glimpse of dark, long hair out of his peripheral vision. His heart may or may not skip a beat, but so what if it does?

“Ah, Mr. Bobby!”

“McKenzie,” he stupidly says.

MC laughs, falling into step beside him. She’s empty handed this time, aside from a leather tote that’s absent of food items, unlike his. “Can I help you carry one of those?” she asks. “They look heavy.”

Bobby briefly considers doing the chivalrous thing and saying no, please don’t worry about my bags, you don’t have to help me. But they’re heavy and his arms are slightly shaking. Nothing like carrying some groceries to remind him how woefully out of shape he is.

“That’d be brill,” he answers, handing over the lighter bag.

She hikes it onto her shoulder. “Do you always bring in this much food?”

They resume their walk to the stairwell as Bobby hums an acknowledgement. “I’ve got six classes a day so that equals a lot of food. The school supplies most of it, but I’ve a few students with allergies or dietary restrictions so I bring in a lot of my own stuff, too.”

MC cocks an eyebrow. Bobby thinks she might almost look impressed. “What do you do with the rest, then? If this is what you’ve got left over, I can’t imagine how much you started with.”

“Depends,” Bobby says, holding the door open for MC as they reach the landing of the ground floor. “If it’s liable to go bad I’ll take it home and use it, or I’ll return it to the kitchen here if the school gave it to me. Sometimes I’ll knick the non-perishable items or things I brought in myself and donate them to the church.”

“Oh,” MC replies, her voice a little thick. “Do you volunteer there?”

“Aye, they do a proper three-course meal twice a week on Wednesdays and Saturdays. A lot of people show up just ‘cos they’re lonely, you know? Lots of old people are. So there’s food for the folks that need it but there’s also a really great community there for the folks who need that, too.” Bobby pauses, his cheeks growing warm. “Sorry.”

MC shoulder-bumps him. “No, don’t apologize. It’s a really lovely thing for you to do.”

“Thanks,” Bobby says sheepishly. “The folks there do a lot for me, too, so it’s not all one-sided. One of the ladies that shows up on Wednesdays found out I teach Home-Ec. She taught me how to knit so I could teach the kids.”

“That’s so sweet. She’d probably been itching to teach someone for ages.”

As they reach Bobby’s car, he feels suddenly light. Talking about the food bank and his volunteer work always makes him feel good — not in a braggy way, just because it puts things into perspective in a way he’d probably struggle to see otherwise. Even if he often feels overworked and underpaid, he’s got a roof over his head and food in his fridge and a bunch of students who really seem to like him. He’s rich in other ways.

“Thanks for the help,” he says as MC hands over the bag she’d carried.

He shoves everything into his backseat and pauses, unsure what to do next. Does he say an awkward goodbye? Ask her for coffee again? No, that would definitely be too weird, he decides. He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly aware of the sound of his blood in his ears. He feels seventeen again: an insecure, awkward assortment of nerves.

“Do you know Priya?” he blurts out before his brain can convince him it’s a bad idea.

“The maths teacher? Of course! She’s lovely.”

“Aye, I’ve heard as much,” he says. “Noah’s invited me to a get-together at hers on Friday.”

MC adopts a knowing look. “Does that invitation have anything to do with the entire school knowing we went for a coffee yesterday?”

Bobby can’t help it as he turns crimson again. “It might.”

“And, let me guess: Noah ribbed you about it endlessly all day.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

MC nods, smiling. “Thought so. I don’t really know him, he just seems the type.”

“He’s way too smug, right?” Bobby jokes.

“Ugh, welcome to the English department,” MC snorts. “They're all smug. God, there’s this one bloke called Bradley Clarke — you should’ve heard him in a faculty meeting last year.” MC twists her face into a displeased expression and talks in an exaggerated posh accent: “What do you mean you’re not approving _Ulysses_ for this year’s curriculum? It’s one of the most important works of literature of the twentieth century.” She rolls her eyes as her face and voice return to normal. “It’s like, come _off_ it, mate. People do entire theses on that rubbish book and you’re teaching Year 11. Don’t waste their fucking time.”

Bobby leans against his car. “I take it you’re not a fan of James Joyce, then?”

“Is anyone _actually_? Pretentious bastard.” They share a laugh. “Anyway, I should be heading home. Lots of marking to be done.”

“Marking?” Bobby asks, feigning confusion. “Never heard of it. Sounds dreadful.”

MC starts walking to the other side of the car park, her green Prius one of only a few cars still there. “It’s for real teachers only, Mr. Bobby!” she yells over her shoulder.

“McKenzie,” Bobby says quietly, almost as if he’s in daze, still leaning against his car.

The next three days go by in a blur. He ducks out of school on Wednesday as soon as the final bell rings and heads to the church, apron at the ready to help cook. He catches up with the rest of the volunteers and makes his usual rounds as soon as someone else takes over in the kitchen. Esther, the woman who’d taught him to knit, gifts him a pair of striped socks she’d recently finished and he promises to wear them all the time now that the weather’s getting colder. She gives him a peck on the cheek and promises him a hat by next week.

On Thursday, he assigns the kids a budgeting exercise. They pick salaries out of a hat (modest ones, of course; he’d only put in one ‘inherited 100 million pounds from a mysterious uncle’ scrap) and he teaches them how to live within their means. He tries not to laugh at how shell-shocked they are, their dreams of owning row-homes in Mayfair and driving Range Rovers immediately squandered.

Anxiety settles in the pit of Bobby’s stomach as soon as he wakes up on Friday. He can’t put his finger on why he’s so nervous about the party. He figures it’s a combination of him only knowing Noah and it being a small, familiar gathering between coworkers; nothing like the ragers he’d gone to in his prime, where being an anonymous body in a sea of other anonymous bodies was the norm.

Of course, the hostess of the party knowing he went on a not-date with MC doesn’t help, either.

At lunch, Noah promises to pick him up around eight but Bobby offers to drive separately “just in case.” Noah’s able to read between the lines and doesn’t push it, just texts him the address and tells him everyone usually brings a snack or some alcohol. Bobby tells him he’ll pick up some beer on the way; he could do with some liquid courage.

Once he’s home, he takes a shower and spends too long stressing over what to wear. Will it be a business casual affair or completely casual? Will he look out of place in a jumper and nice pair of jeans? Will he be overdressed? Should he wear dress shoes, like he does for work, or will trainers be fine? God, his past self would think he’s a complete tosser. The Bobby that sang in a punk band would never have been caught dead showing up to a party in _dress shoes_.

“This version of you needs to make a good impression, mate,” he says, staring at himself in his bathroom mirror. He fixes his hair, adjusting his dreads so they’re mostly out of the way, and calls it good enough.

He brushes his teeth and makes sure not to put on too much cologne. He pats the pockets of his jacket before he heads out, checking for his wallet, phone, and keys. He’s in and out of the liquor store before he has time to stress over what kind of beer to buy and he tries to will his hands to stop shaking as he types Priya’s address into his phone.

He pulls up a few minutes after eight, recognizing Noah’s car immediately. He doesn’t bother texting him — he’s a grown adult and figures he can act accordingly, even if he _does_ feel like he’s going to throw up all over Priya’s steps.

A tall, glamorous woman grins at him as soon as she pulls open the door. “Oh my gosh! You must be Bobby!”

“That would be me,” he says, smiling just as big, “although you may know me better as Noah’s date.”

“I’m Priya,” she says, stepping aside to invite him in. “It’s so nice to meet you!” She pulls Bobby into a hug that seemingly melts all his anxieties away. All he can think is that there’s no way she’s a maths teacher.

“Likewise,” he says. “Where should I put this?” he asks, pointing to the beer under his arm.

“I’ll take it,” Priya offers. “Noah should be in the lounge. Make sure he introduces you to everyone.”

Bobby heads in the direction of all the commotion and finds his friend easily. He’s sat on the couch with a few others, all of them yelling at a board game set up on the coffee table. Noah’s eyes light up as soon as he sees Bobby and he jumps up quickly, stumbling a bit in his haste.

“You made it!” he cheers, and, yeah, he’s definitely already a little drunk.

Bobby laughs, placing both hands on Noah’s shoulders to steady him. “Alright, mate?”

“Got started early,” Noah says, waving off his own comment. “Let me introduce you to ev—“

Noah’s cut off by a shrieking blonde. “Oh my gosh!” she screams, doing her best to scramble over to Bobby in her heels. He swears she’s literally _bouncing._ “You must be Bobby! I feel like I already know so much about you, babes!” He’s pulled into a bone-crushing hug before he can respond.

He catches Noah’s eye over the blonde’s shoulder. “That would be Chelsea,” is all he says.

“Come, come!” she says, pulling him further into the lounge. “Everyone, this is Bobby! Bobby, this is everyone!”

“Helpful, Chels,” Noah deadpans. “The tall lad over there is Rahim, the P.E. teacher. If he looks familiar, he used to play golf. Like, professionally. That’s why he wears those goofy fucking shirts all the time.”

Bobby immediately decides he likes Drunk Noah.

“Fuck you, bro,” Rahim says. “Just because _you_ look bad in polos—“

“The one in the leopard blouse is Hope,” he says, ignoring Rahim, and Bobby doesn’t miss the change in his tone. He makes a mental note to ask about it later. “She’s in charge of the Business Club and some other things that aren’t important,” he adds under his breath. Yeah, there’s definitely some history there.

Rahim comes over, offering his hand to Bobby. “It’s nice to meet you, man. Glad you could make it.”

He spends the better part of an hour making small talk with everyone. Chelsea, who’s also drunk, reintroduces herself to him five times. She’s a handful, but Bobby takes a liking to her. She’s bubbly and warm and has a funny way of making him feel like the most important person in the room. She tells him all about her love of gin and the Spice Girls, making him promise to do a duet with her when it comes time to do karaoke. Noah does a small fist pump when she’s not looking and says something that sounds an awful lot like “thank fucking god it’s not me again.”

One drink turns into two which somehow turns into four or five. Bobby stopped counting when he lost feeling in his lips. It’s gotten rowdier, he notices, which is a small miracle considering he’s seeing double of everything. Mostly he can feel the bass of whatever song is playing all the way in his chest. He’s not sure what kind of get-together he’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t _this._

Priya and Rahim are doing some kind of dance Bobby saw in a nightclub once. Noah’s scrolling through his phone on the couch, unfazed by the chaos around him as if he’s done this a thousand times. Chelsea’s hooping and hollering every time the song changes even though she doesn’t know the words to any of them. Hope has barely spoken to him all night, so Bobby tries not to pay her much attention. A few more people had shown up but Bobby can’t remember any of their names. He’s not sure if he ever learned them to begin with.

“When’s karaoke?” he asks Chelsea, who’s too busy showing him pictures of pugs she found on Google to answer.

“Hmm?”

“Karaoke,” Bobby repeats. “I owe you a duet, lass!”

Chelsea squeals, pocketing her phone. “Ohmigosh, you want to do a duet with me? That is, like, _so_ sweet! I’d love to do a duet with you!” A sudden thought seems to hit her, because her face falls and she looks sad. “But we can’t do it until MC gets here. She loves karaoke! She’ll be so sad if I do it without her!”

Bobby’s limbs turn to jam at the mention of her name. No one had told him MC was coming. “Oh?” he asks, though it comes out as more of a squeak.

“I always invite her but she never comes,” Chelsea frowns. “I don’t know why! This is so much fun, right?” Bobby nods. “Will you tell her it’s fun? She doesn’t believe me.”

“Sure thing, Chels.”

That seems to have been the right answer because Chelsea’s immediately back to showing him pictures of more pugs. Bobby thinks they’re ugly but doesn’t have the heart to tell her. He’s able to excuse himself long enough to fetch a drink from the kitchen — nothing alcoholic, because he’s pretty sure he reached his limit about an hour ago. For the most part, the world has returned to normal and has stopped spinning so much. God, he hasn’t been this drunk since his first year at uni.

And with a bunch of teachers, no less. His _coworkers._

He’s all set to ask Priya if he can leave his car here and call a cab home when the song changes again, this time to “Money” by Cardi B. From the kitchen, he hears Priya screams in excitement. There’s no way he can leave now — this is _his_ song. Once Bobby’s back in the lounge, he can’t help but laugh. Priya’s kicked off her heels and has taken her place atop the coffee table where she’s well into the first verse.

“Wait!” Bobby yells, kicking his own shoes off. “This is my favorite song!”

“Get up here, then!” Priya says, holding out her hand to help pull him up. He’s way too drunk for this. “I was born to flex—“

“Diamonds on my neck!” Bobby sings into the imaginary microphone Priya is holding out to him.

“I like boarding jets—“

“I like morning sex!”

He hears Chelsea squeal before a familiar voice says, “Wow, if I would’ve known _this_ is what I’ve been missing, I would’ve started showing up to these things a long time ago.”

A mop of white-blonde hair goes by in a flash, immediately enveloping MC in a tight hug as they sway back and forth. Bobby nearly topples off the table. His face feels flushed, though he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or embarrassment.

“Oh, hi, MC,” he says, peering down at her from atop the table.

“You made it, babes!” Chelsea shrieks. “Ohmigod, I have to introduce you to Bobby! He’s my new best friend!”

MC smiles, a glint of humor in her eyes. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Bobby,” she says, playing along. “Glad to see you’re having fun.”

“Am just drunk,” he says. Priya’s still singing the rest of the song on her own, having given up on her duet with Bobby long ago. “I like Cardi.”

“Would’ve never guessed.”

“She’s my celebrity crush.”

MC covers her mouth with her hand so Bobby can’t see her laugh. “Is that so?”

He hums. “I should probably go home,” he thinks out loud. “I’ve got to, er, feed my cat?”

Bobby hasn’t got a cat. He doesn’t even _like_ cats, yet that’s what his brain has come up with.

“You don’t look to be in any state to drive.”

“I’m not, no.”

“Would you like a ride?” MC asks, the amused expression still on her face.

“In your Prius?” Bobby asks, his nose scrunching up.

“Yep, in my Prius.”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

MC holds out her hand to help him down from the table. Once he slips his shoes back on, they search the house together for his coat. Bobby can’t remember where he’d put it, can’t actually remember whether he’d worn one at all. They find it hung up by the front door (after Bobby adamantly swore it wasn’t there) and MC checks his pockets for his wallet and keys while Bobby makes his rounds, thanking Priya for having him and saying goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous to everyone else.

Noah promises to text him in the morning. “Maybe we can go out for a fry-up. I already know I’m gonna need one for my inevitable hangover.”

Bobby turns to MC with a shit-eating grin. “I’m drunk and I have work friends now!”

“Proud of you! Now let’s get you home. Wouldn’t want you to oversleep for that fry-up date with Noah.”

It's the third week of term, and Bobby has already gone on three not-dates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the feedback on the first chapter! I still have no idea where this is going, but I'm having fun writing it. Updates may be slow because of work and life and all that.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading, love u all.


	3. proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby's asked to teach a new class. Bobby doesn't handle it well.

Bobby stabs his fork into the yolk of his egg, praying away his hangover. Across from him, Noah groans at all the commotion of a busy cafe during breakfast rush. Between the two of them, Bobby isn’t sure they have enough combined brain power to do anything but continue sitting there until they start feeling human again.

“So,” Bobby starts, taking a large sip of coffee, “what’s the deal with you and Hope?”

Noah sputters, sending tiny toast crumbs in every direction. “What?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice. If you’re going to be up my arse about MC, the least I can do is return the favor.”

Noah suddenly finds his barely-touched plate very interesting. “I’ve _not_ been up your arse,” he glares. “Also, you were really drunk, so I’m sure you were just imagining it. _Also_ also, there’s no ‘deal’ with me and Hope.”

“Deffo didn’t imagine it, mate,” Bobby retorts. He dips a corner of his toast into the yolk. “Eat up! Dippy egg will cure that hangover.”

“What egg?”

“Dippy.”

“Are you five?”

Bobby frowns. “Don’t I wish.” He fidgets in his seat, perking up suddenly. “My other favorite food is spaghetti hoops on toast.”

Noah drops his fork. “You’re not serious.”

“I am! Reminds me of—“

“And you teach kids how to cook? You’re teaching these impressionable, innocent children to cook _dippy eggs_ and _spaghetti hoops on toast_?”

Bobby glares. “Spaghetti hoops on toast is not currently in my curriculum, no, but you’ve given me an idea for my final project.”

“Please don’t.”

Bobby shrugs and shoves another piece of toast into his mouth. “Maybe I won’t if you spill the tea.”

“You’re starting to sound like the kids,” Noah replies, rolling his eyes. “But there’s really nothing to tell. We dated and it didn’t work out.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know, a few months maybe.” Bobby stares at him long enough to make him feel obligated. “Fine! It was a little over a year.”

“A year? Noah, that’s pretty serious, mate.”

Noah’s quiet for a bit, avoiding eye contact as he pokes around his plate. There’s a few times when he opens his mouth, looks ready to talk about it, but it snaps closed just as quickly. Bobby knows that feeling — he’s had his fair share of rough break-ups and a few broken hearts.

“I guess it was a bit serious,” Noah finally says.

“What happened? Didn’t seem like you two ended things on a positive note.”

“We didn’t,” Noah says, dabbing a slice of greasy bacon with a napkin.

Bobby gasps. “Mate, what are you doing? The grease gets rid of your hangover faster.”

“I thought dippy egg did that.”

“It’s a joint effort,” Bobby huffs.

Noah unfolds the napkin and starts dabbing the entire plate of bacon. “Well, I happen to like my arteries, so…”

“The morning after a night of heavy drinking is _not_ the time to be health-conscious.”

“Easy for you to say,” Noah scoffs. “You’re actually starting to look and sound human again, whereas I’m…” He frowns, losing his train of thought entirely.

“Grendel?” Bobby offers. “Cthulu? A Morlock?”

“You did not just make an H.G. Wells reference at me.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “You keep operating under the assumption that I’ve never read a book in my life. Honestly, it’s starting to hurt my feelings a bit.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Nah, it’s not,” Bobby grins, “but I used to be obsessed with magic so I read _The Time Machine_ a lot as a wee lad.”

Their waitress refills their coffee mugs twice more before Noah brings up his relationship with Hope again. They’d met almost by accident, having run into each other at a workshop out of town. Noah had nearly died when they realized they worked in the same school district and, against his better judgment, he asked her on a date. Things had started off great — they had similar interests and life goals. It wasn’t until the eight-month mark that things started to fall apart. Always the planner, Noah had began to think more seriously about the future: where he wanted to put down permanent roots, marriage, kids. He’d always wanted a large family. It was one of the first things he’d shared with Hope, figuring there was no point in starting something serious if she didn’t want the same thing.

They were a week past their one-year anniversary when she finally admitted that she didn’t.

“Luckily she dropped the bomb on me before it got any more serious.”

Bobby frowned. “That’s rough, mate. She should’ve been honest from the beginning.”

“Hence why it didn’t really end well. I felt like such a knob, you know? She’d met my entire family. My mum and sister loved her. I’ve never felt so betrayed in my life.”

“Did she ever tell you why she kept it from you?”

“Nah, not really. Of course I asked, but she kept saying she hadn’t thought I was that serious, that we were young and there was still time for both of us to change our minds.”

“Brutal,” Bobby says. He’s not quite sure what else to say. None of his relationships had been serious enough to have the marriage-and-kids talk.

“Right? And I kept wondering if I was the one in the wrong, if maybe giving up having kids was the right thing to do if I truly felt like I’d found The One. I beat myself up over that for months.”

Bobby finishes off his fourth cup of coffee. “Nah, mate. You know what your boundaries are and it’s a good thing you stuck to them. Kids is, like, the ultimate dealbreaker. Can’t really have half a kid if one of you don’t want them.”

“What about you?” Noah asks. Bobby raises his eyebrows. “You want kids?”

“Aye, I think I’d like to have a little one.”

Noah nods. “You’d be a fun dad.” He seems to think over his statement before he frowns. “Do you think I’d be too serious?”

“If you’re already stressing over it? Yeah, probably.”

This only makes Noah frown deeper.

Bobby has to be at the food bank in just under an hour, so he hurriedly eats the last of his breakfast and splits the bill with Noah. They promise to do lesson plan critiques on Sunday, as they’ve started doing purely by accident, and go their own ways. He starts the drive to the church feeling kind of light and not at all hungover.

It isn’t until the Head of the school pops into Bobby’s classroom first thing Monday morning that he comes down from his cloud.

“Good morning, Mr. McKenzie!” she greets him. Bobby’s limbs immediately turn into jelly.

“Morning,” he says, trying desperately to look busy at his laptop. He clicks on random icons on his desktop, only to close the programs as soon as they open.

It’s not that she’s intimidating, or even all that strict, but she’s never just _popped in_ to Bobby’s classroom before. She’s always sent an email. So now, as she stands in front of him, he’s a bit blindsided. Has someone filed a complaint? Has the home economics budget been slashed and he’s being sacked? Did one of the students see him knick food from the cafeteria and report him?

Oh god, has someone tattled about him and MC?

_You’ve done nothing wrong_ , he tries to tell himself. It’s useless. His legs are anxiously bouncing up and down beneath his desk, enough to make his cheeks jiggle a bit.

“I’m not here for anything bad,” she says. Bobby’s legs still. “I’m here because Joan—“

“Joan?” Bobby asks.

“Knightley. Health department?”

“Oh, right,” Bobby nods, still not a clue who Joan Knightley is. He thinks he might’ve heard Rahim call her an old bat once but he can’t be sure.

“Unfortunately she’s fallen ill and will be out for quite some time.”

He puts on his best sympathetic face. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear.”

“Me too, of course. So I’m here to ask for a favor.”

“Oh?”

“You’re the only teacher with back-to-back free periods and Joan was meant to teach the Year 10s sex-ed next month—“

_Oh._ Oh, god. Bobby’s limbs turn to jelly again.

“—so I’ve come to ask if you could take on her class.”

“Sex-ed?” Bobby asks, his voice embarrassingly high. “Pardon the question, but isn’t that, like, a biology thing?”

“Technically, yes, but Miss Chrz…” she pauses, turning slightly pink. “Magdalena is quite busy with the Anatomy & Physiology elective so unfortunately she doesn’t have the time.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. McKenzie, I just don’t see another option unless we cancel the class altogether.”

Ah, the ultimate guilt trip for an educator. Of course Bobby would love to keep his additional free period, but he’d hate even more to rob his kids of a proper sex education.

“That’s quite all right,” he says. “What, um… what’s the curriculum, then?”

“I’d like to leave that up to you. I’ve heard from many students how much they enjoy your class, so I’m confident they’d be in good hands with whatever you taught.”

“You have?” he asks, still in disbelief that he’s actually good at teaching.

“From students and parents both, yes. To be quite honest with you, I think I’d prefer you teaching the course. Mrs. Knightley is an excellent educator, but she’s, uh… a bit old-school, let’s say.”

“Abstinence-only?” Bobby asks, thinking back to his own sex-ed class and how ill-prepared he’d been when it finally came time for him to lose his virginity.

“Not explicitly, since I was strongly against it, but the undertones were definitely there. I think the kids will have much more trust in you as well. It’s a sensitive topic and the kids need someone they’re comfortable with in order to ask questions.”

He suddenly feels very thankful to have found himself in this place, at this school, with this particular Head who was smart and empathetic and put the students first. So, even though he’s scared to death to teach a bunch of teenagers sex education, he agrees and decides he’ll deal with the fear later. The kids need him, after all.

Bobby breaks the news to Noah and Rahim, who has joined their two-man lunch crew, with a furious blush spread across his cheeks. _Say hello to the new sex-ed teacher_ , he tells them. They think he’s joking and laugh, and laugh even harder when they realize he’s telling the truth. They go back and forth saying crude sex things in an over-exaggerated Scottish accent, each one sending them further into hysterics. Bobby doesn’t think it’s funny at all.

“I thought you were meant to be the serious one,” he says to Noah, eyes narrowed.

Noah wipes the tears from his eyes. “Mate, I’m sorry, I just can’t believe they put you in charge of this.”

Bobby scoffs and throws a crouton at him. “I take offense to that, and I’ll have you know I plan on taking this quite seriously. My sex-ed teacher was shit. I looked like a proper idiot when I tried having sex for the first time.”

Rahim groans. “God, so did I. My mum and dad are fairly religious, so they always told me not to until I got married, but I turned pro fairly young and I was around all these hot girls—“

“No way golf has groupies,” Noah cuts in. “It’s the most boring sport of all-time.”

“It definitely does, so fuck off,” Rahim says. “Anyway. The poor girl asked if it was my first time and I was too embarrassed to say yes. I hadn’t even watched porn at that point so I really didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to put the condom on, so she tried to do it and I got so excited that a girl was touching my dick that I came right then. I was fucking mortified. My golf mates ragged on me for months.”

“Your first time was a random hookup?” Noah asks in disbelief. “Not even someone you knew?”

“I was homeschooled! The only girls I knew were from my parents’ church.”

Noah holds his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. If you’d done it with someone you knew and trusted—“

“Oh, come off it, Noah,” Bobby interjects. “Don’t pay him any mind, Rahim. You don’t have to take life advice from anyone who drinks out of a hydroflask.”

“Too right,” Rahim says, flashing Noah the finger. “I’m sure your first time was all rose petals and lush candles, Mr. Romance.”

Bobby chuckles. “Probably quoted Sonnet 18 by Shakespeare to her and everything.”

“ _Shall I compare thee to a lost virginity_ ,” Rahim mocks. He and Bobby roar with laughter.

“I put it in the wrong hole,” Noah deadpans.

Rahim and Bobby go silent and share a look. “What?” they say in unison.

“True story.”

“He’s fucking with us,” Rahim says to Bobby. He turns to Noah. “You’re fucking with us.”

“I’m not. It was an accident.”

Bobby winces. “Fuck, man.”

“No shit, mate. She started crying and I was too terrified to have sex again until my last year at uni.”

“Press F to pay respects,” Rahim says.

Noah looks at Bobby. “What about you, then?”

Bobby turns crimson. “It was with a girl in my year that I’d been dating for a few months. I wasn’t actually… sure? If I was ready? But I was sixteen and most of my mates were doing it so I thought maybe I was too in my head about it. I was kind of a mess of a teenager. I was playing in a punk band and snuck out and got into trouble a lot, so I also felt like I had this reputation to live up to—“

“You were in a what?” Rahim asks.

“A punk band. Paisley Cuddle. Anyway. I was a horny teenager on the internet so of course I’d seen porn, but my sex-ed had been shit, so I thought I knew what I should’ve been doing, just didn’t know how to actually do it. So we’re about to get to the… doing it… part and I just panic. She offers to get on top so I say yeah, sure, fuck it. Except she knew fuck-all, either, and my dick bent in such a way I thought it was fucking broken. I thought I was dying. I started screaming and my fuckin’ mum rushes in, sees what’s going on, and _she_ starts screaming.”

“Shit,” Noah says. “Was she mad?”

“I was crying and begging her to take me to A&E because I thought my dick was broken, so I think she was more concerned about that in the moment.”

All three of them shudder at the thought of their appendages breaking and decide to change the subject.

“Any idea what kind of curriculum you’re going to do?” Noah asks.

“Not yet. I was thinking of setting up a question box in case they’re too embarrassed to ask in class, though.”

“That’s a good idea,” Rahim says. He glances at the clock and begins packing his stuff. “Good luck, mate. If you get stuck, maybe one of the biology teachers could help?” He shares a look with Noah and smirks.

“Maybe lend a _helping hand_?”

Bobby shrinks back into his chair. “You two are the worst.”

They wave over their shoulders as they disappear into the hallway, leaving Bobby alone in the staff room with his thoughts and half-eaten salad. He feels paralyzed by fear again, now that the jokes and distractions are over and reality settles back in — the way he used to feel waiting to get an exam back. Like even if he’s tried his best, the results are still going to be catastrophic.

It’s silly. He’s survived a few years of this already — of teaching, instructing, and connecting with the kids. He’s good at it. A change in subject isn’t enough to change that. Besides, knowing the Year 10s, it’ll be less teaching and more putting a stop to endless penis jokes. The boys will get grossed out by menstruation and childbirth; the girls will think wet dreams are disgusting and might also be horrified by childbirth; they’ll all be disgusted by STDs. Well, maybe. Teenagers have surprised him before.

Back in his classroom, he preps for an easy class on removing stains from various materials intermixed with budgeting. He’d gone to a hardware store over the weekend and purchased all the carpet squares they had and a few of his mates came round on Sunday and had a great time spilling things on them. Bobby had been tempted to text MC and ask for some homemade recipes for stain-removers before he remembered she didn’t actually teach chemistry. He has a lot of thoughts about MC that he doesn’t follow up on.

The worst part of his job is his friends, he thinks, because by the end of the day on Thursday, MC has found out he’s due to teach sex ed. She appears in the doorway of his classroom, still adorning a white lab coat with her initials embroidered into the pocket.

Bobby can’t help but smile as he takes her in. “What’s your middle name?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“Jordan,” she answers, moving further into the room. Bobby chews the name over in his head, eyes still glued to her as she hops on top of a workstation. He decides he likes it.

“Are your parents religious? That’s a pretty heavy name.”

“No, not at all,” she replies. There’s a smile on her face that tells him she’s joking. “Poland is, like, ninety-percent Roman Catholic or something, so I got both the name of Jesus's maybe-wife and the river where he was baptized.”

“Oh, are your parents from there?”

“My mum was born here. My dad moved here when he was a kid.”

Bobby’s eyes light up like fireworks. “Really? Mine too! My mum is Scottish but my dad’s from Jamaica.”

“Jamaica? But it’s so dreary in Scotland!”

“Aye, that’s why you make jerk haggis!”

The biology teacher’s face twists into a look of pure disgust. “Come again?”

Bobby sits back on his desk, folding his arms across his chest. “I know yer not mocking Jamaica’s national cooking style.” He tries to look offended but it comes off more like he’s holding in a bad joke. Or constipation. He can’t be sure.

“Not the jerk I’m disgusted by.” MC pauses for a moment before smirking. “Well,” she says, looking at Bobby playfully, “maybe one jerk.”

His stomach plummets to the floor. Is she flirting? No, she wouldn’t. Not so out in the open and at school. Especially not at school. But they’re friends, right? So it’s just a funny joke between friends. The expression on her face doesn’t look joke-y, but it’s not like there’s a universal expression for joking. There’s not one for flirting, either, so that idea is out the window, too.

Besides, he’s nowhere near bold enough to outright ask if she’s flirting with him, so he changes the subject altogether. “I’m actually glad you stopped by,” he says, panic pricking at his skin once again. “I’m sure by now you’ve heard about my new class?”

MC sits up straighter. “Ohmigod, yes! Of course I’ve heard! Chelsea told me at lunch.”

Of course Chelsea’s told her. And he’s sure Priya told her, and that Rahim was the one who told Priya. At least the game of telephone that is his life is slowly becoming more direct. Eventually, he’ll be the one to tell Chelsea things.

“Right, well, since you’re the biology teacher I thought you could help me.”

“With…?” MC laughs, her blue eyes sparkling. “Mr. Bobby, do I need to explain the birds and the bees to you?”

“McKen—“ he starts, then frowns deeply once her words register. “No,” he glares, “I know how sex works. I’ve had tons of it, I’ll have you know.”

This sends MC into hysterics. Her face turns a deep shade of red and tears stream down her cheeks as Bobby also turns a deep shade of pink, although he’s not laughing. More embarrassment. More sticking his foot in his mouth. Why don’t his words work whenever he’s around her?

“Shit,” she says, finally calming down. She dabs the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her lab coat. “That was proper funny.”

“Didn’t come out quite how I’d planned,” Bobby replies, his cheeks still warm.

“Pish posh,” she says, waving her hand. “Do you _actually_ need my help?”

Bobby nods. “Aye. I want to do it right, you know? So actual biology and anatomy lessons and all that. I don’t want to pull a _Mean Girls_ and just tell them not to have sex.”

“How much anatomy do you know, then?”

_Don’t go there_ , his brain says. _Don’t tell her you know where the clitoris is._

“Well, I’m no biologist but I get by.”

MC rolls her eyes. The smile still hasn’t left her face since she’d stopped laughing. “How much time do I have?”

“A few weeks.”

“Okay,” she says. “But fair warning: I _will_ give you homework.”

“What? Why?”

“For the same reasons we give it to our students.”

“I don’t give homework!”

“Because you’re not a real teacher,” she jokes.

Bobby frowns. “Can’t you just come and teach instead?”

“And deprive you of this once-in-a-lifetime experience? Not a chance.”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Are you free this weekend? My A&P kids are starting their section on the reproductive system soon, so I’ll be drumming up those lesson plans anyway.”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Yeah.”

“Cool,” she says, finally hopping down from the workstation. “Would it be alright if I came to yours? Ever since you mentioned your cat I’ve been dying to meet them! I love cats.”

Bobby hasn’t got a cat. He doesn’t even _like_ cats. “My what?”

“Your cat,” MC repeats. “The one you told me about at Priya’s party.”

Well, fuck. Drunk Bobby truly is his own worst enemy. “Oh, right, my cat.”

He racks his brain for a lie. Nothing serious, just a small one. Like how his cat loves his sister so it spends a few months out of the year back in Glasgow. But he’d already admitted to lying about having marking to do the first day they’d met — surely two stupid lies would make him look really bad. So he keeps it up and gives her his address and promises to let her know on Sunday what time works best.

As soon as she’s gone, he fishes his phone from his pocket and fires off a panicked text to Noah:

** MATE DO U HAVE A CAT I CAN BORROW??? **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all.
> 
> First, let me apologize for how long it has taken me to update. I would not recommend working in advertising during the holidays and a presidential election year. 0/10
> 
> Anyway, I know this chapter is shorter than the previous two, but I wanted to get something out and not delay it any longer. I hope you all like it! As always, thanks so much for all the feedback -- I truly appreciate it!


	4. marzipan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby adopts a cat.

Instead of meeting up with Noah and Rahim at the pub, Bobby spends his Friday evening on his couch. He’s got Jonno on Facetime, the two of them scouring every animal shelter in London for a cat that’s able to be adopted on short-notice. His desperate attempts to borrow one had come up fruitless, so this is where he’s at now.

Jonno has reminded him at least four times in the past hour that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, but he keeps sending Bobby adoption listings nonetheless.

“Aye, this one’s cute,” Jonno says, his voice tinged with affection. “Let me send it.”

A notification chimes from Bobby’s laptop, and he’s immediately greeted by an extremely sad-looking black cat named Mars. “Oh,” Bobby says, feeling his mood drop drastically. “It – it looks so _sad._ ”

“Well, yeah,” Jonno replies. The subtext asks Bobby if he’s daft. “Did you read it? He’s been in the shelter longer than any of the other cats. Like, two and a half years.”

“Two years? Is that even possible?”

Jonno snorts. “Mate, how did you think shelters work? Anyway, I think he’s cute. You lot can be lonely together.”

“I have friends here now, you knob.”

“Just saying. Plus, look – you can say his full name is Marzipan! Ain’t that well cute? A cat named Marzipan.”

Bobby chews it over in his head. Yes, it would be very cute to name a cat Marzipan. But is this really a good idea—adopting a cat just so he doesn’t come off as a liar? On the one hand, absolutely not; but on the other, even though he isn’t a cat person, Mars is pretty cute. And he _could_ do a good deed. God only knows he wouldn’t want to be left in a shelter for two years, watching all his cat-friends get adopted and wondering why no one wanted him.

Fuck, why did he have to think about that?

“I think I’m gonna do it,” he says. “God, this is daft—”

Jonno squeals in a way that’s extremely unbecoming of a man that goes by Big Jonno. “Mate, yes! Please! I love him. Look at his little face.”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Bobby fills in the questionnaire on the website and sends it off. Even though it’s nearly half-eight, he receives a response almost immediately inviting him to the shelter the following afternoon for a meet-and-greet.

“I’m going to meet him tomorrow,” Bobby says. His voice is quiet and reserved, the exact opposite of Jonno who’s still squealing in dual 12-megapixel quality. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he just, like, bites me right away?”

“Then you obviously did something to deserve it,” Jonno replies. “Try not to overthink it, yeah? It’s a cat, not an arranged marriage.”

“It kind of is, though,” Bobby argues. “For the cat, at least. It doesn’t really have much of a say on who it goes to live with for the rest of its life. He just has to hope it’s a nice person and not someone like you.”

“Like _me?_ ” Jonno shrieks. “How about someone like you, mate? You don’t even like cats and here you are, subjecting some poor lad to a lifetime of an owner who don’t even like ‘im.”

Bobby’s eyebrows knit together. “I’ll like him.”

Through the screen, he watches Jonno cock an eyebrow. Fuck him, honestly. Just because Bobby has been operating under the assumption that he was a dog person before doesn’t mean anything. People change. All the time, actually, and if Bobby was able to leave his dream job to become a Home Economics teacher in an entirely new country, he can become a cat person.

He says goodbye to Jonno and immediately sends him ten quid through Venmo with a note that says “ _drinks on me and my new best friend Marzipan.”_

After exiting out of Venmo, he immediately opens his Amazon app. He doesn’t really know what cats need, but he does know that if he orders it within the next hour, it’ll be delivered by tomorrow. Just in time for him to set it all up in a way that says yes, I’ve always had a cat. He’s lived here for ages and loves company. Please, MC, come in and meet him.

Into his cart goes two stainless steel bowls, a self-cleaning litter box (because even if Bobby winds up loving his future cat, he already knows he _will not_ love cleaning it himself), a window perch, a scratching post, and a 20-pack of assorted toys. He’s about to check out when he sees a breakaway collar with a cute little cupcake charm and he can’t _not_ buy it. There’s something final about putting his name and mobile number on the tag, but it doesn’t feel wrong. Just… like a big decision he’s making. Like moving to London had felt. It was just a thing he was doing that had the potential to go really, really wrong.

_This is the last time my flat will only belong to me,_ he thinks. It could do with a bit more liveliness, to be honest. He’d essentially moved in and went straight into survival mode, jumping right into work and neglecting the rest. Not that it was dirty—it wasn’t, not at all, it just wasn’t very home-y. Lived-in but not in a cozy way. Cold, like that one creepy photo of Kim Kardashian’s house. Having another critter running around wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning, he takes his time waking up. He doesn’t have anywhere to be until he’s due at the food bank around one, so he shoots a quick text to Noah asking if he’ll come to the shelter with him when it’s time. Not that he’s anxious to go alone. Not at all. Bobby is an adult who’s able to do adult things on his own.

**You’re seriously adopting a cat????**

**_Yes_** , Bobby writes back. **_His name is Marzipan and were gonna be best mates_**.

**You’ve already picked one out??? And its name is marzipan?????????**

**_Are u always this rude in the morning_ **

Noah stops responding after that, much to Bobby’s surprise.

At quarter-past twelve, Bobby puts on a nice sweater (a black one, just in case Marzipan sheds) and sets off to the food bank. Esther has his hat ready and he thanks her profusely, chatting her ear off about possibly adopting a cat and meeting him as soon as he leaves. She’s almost as excited as him. He’s regaled by stories of a cat she had in her 40s: a gray tabby named Petunia who followed her everywhere and loved the kids (four of them—three daughters and one son) but hated her husband.

“She used to hide under the bed and bite Peter’s toes when he’d make the bed,” she says with a laugh. Her eyes light up as if she’s recalling the most delightful memory she has.

Bobby returns her smile. “Bet he loved that, eh?”

“Oh, he used to scream! Made a right fuss every morning.”

She’d told him once about Peter’s passing. It wasn’t an unfamiliar story to Bobby; he’d heard it a thousand times before working at the hospital and it never got any easier. He still never knew what to say. The burnout was still very real, but there was some part of him that couldn’t escape that part of himself: the part that always felt like he wasn’t doing or giving enough, the part that knew he’d always be the first one to run into the fire.

Bobby ducks out a bit earlier than usual and fires off another text to Noah, telling him he’s on his way to his flat and to be ready in ten minutes. He was coming to the shelter with him whether he liked it or not.

Noah climbs into the passenger’s side of the car with a scowl. “What if I’d had things to do? You think I can just rearrange my entire schedule to go see a cat?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, another megawatt smile spreading across his face, “otherwise you wouldn’t be in my car right now, would you?”

Sinking further into the seat, the English teacher keeps quiet for most of the ride. It isn’t until they’re a few turns away from the shelter that he starts acting interested—asking what the cat looks like and why he’s called Marzipan.

“He’s not,” Bobby answers. “Well, not really. I guess the shelter called him Mars, but since I’m a baker, I figured I’d call him Marzipan instead. That way I don’t really have to change it.”

“That’s kind of cute, actually.” Noah acts like this it causes him physical pain to admit this.

As soon as Bobby parks his car, butterflies take over his stomach. It feels like his first day of teaching all over again, when he’d nearly gotten sick all over the parking lot because he ran through a million disaster scenarios in his mind. Only that day had gone perfectly fine; the rest of them did, too. And it’s only a cat. If Marzipan doesn’t like him, surely there’d be another one that did. He’d just have to name that one Marzipan, too, so he could keep the collar.

The inside of the shelter smells exactly like the hospital, which is comforting in its own way. Sterile, like too much bleach. _Almost like home_ , Bobby thinks. He signs in at the desk and waits. Beside him, Noah’s a bundle of energy. He strolls around the reception area, looking through all the windows and doors. He turns to Bobby with an excited look as he stares into the room with all the cats, jabbing a finger at the glass.

“Mate, look! I think that’s your pal.”

Bobby joins him at the window and follows Noah’s finger to a cage all the way in the back, to the far right against the wall. A long-haired black cat is curled into a ball, fast asleep. Bobby’s heart stammers in his chest as he imagines the poor lad doing that day after day.

“Oh, mate,” Bobby says, his tone once again deflating. “He looks like a little black cloud, like the one that follows around Eeyore.”

“That’s proper depressing, Bobs. Maybe try being a bit more optimistic, yeah?”

Bobby huffs, ready to respond when a staff member finally greets them, introducing herself as Ruby. She goes over a few things she has stuck to a clipboard, her eyebrows nearly disappearing beyond her hairline as she realizes who Bobby’s there to meet.

“You’re here for Mars?” she asks. “Wow, that’s great! He’s our longest-tenured resident.”

Gesturing for them to follow, she unlocks the door to the cat room and makes her way to Mars’s cage. Noah had been right—he was in the cage he’d pointed to earlier, the one Bobby thought looked like a black cloud. It was kind of fitting, he figures.

Ruby unlocks the cage and gives Mars a few scratches on his head to wake him up. “He’s a really sweet boy,” she says, “but you can tell he doesn’t like living here. He doesn’t really get on with other cats.”

“Oh,” Bobby responds, “that’s fine. I don’t have any other pets. He’d, uh—he’d actually be my first cat.”

Ruby’s eyes look like an anime character’s when she spins around, her bottom lip jutted outward in a frown. “How sweet!” She turns back to the cat, cooing at him. “Hi, Mars! Someone’s here to meet you! Let’s take you to the playroom so you can get properly acquainted.”

The words are out before Bobby can stop them: “No, it’s okay—I, uh… if it’s okay, I’d really just like to adopt him. It doesn’t need to be a whole affair.”

“Are you sure?” Ruby asks, her eyes still wide as saucers. “You don’t want to play with him first or anything?”

Noah jabs him in the ribs subtly, also asking him wordlessly if he might want to rethink it. This was his last out, so to speak, and it truly was a massive decision. He’d be responsible for this fluffball for the rest of its life. But seeing the look in Mars’s eyes, like he’d gotten his hopes up like this before only to be let down, was too much. Emotion took over and Bobby had made up his mind. There was no way he was going to walk out of that shelter without him.

“Can I just hold him, maybe? Real quick,” he asks. Ruby nods and hands him over, and Bobby can’t believe how soft he is. Like silk, or a really expensive cashmere sweater. “Wow,” is all he says. He makes sure to support the cat’s back legs, like he’d seen on YouTube. Mars looks up at him with his large, green eyes, and Bobby knows immediately he’s doomed. Guilt-tripped by a cat.

Of course this would happen to him, all because his drunk mouth liked to lie.

“Hello, Marzipan,” he coos. “Would you like to come live with me? I promise I’m a good roommate—I won’t even make you pay rent.”

Ruby giggles. “Marzipan?”

Bobby smiles at her. “I’m a pastry chef, so when I saw the name Mars, I figured it’d work.”

Ruby leans over to give Mars some scratches under his chin. “Sounds like fate to me, huh, Mars?”

_Fate._ Now that’s something Bobby hasn’t thought much about in a long time.

They reconvene at the reception desk. Bobby fills out a thousand pages of paperwork as Mars sits in Noah’s lap, content to sleep there all afternoon. There’s a house-shaped cardboard box with handles sitting on the floor between them that Bobby had made a smartass remark about (“Not much of a house! Hasn’t even got a proper roof!”).

Once the forms are done and Bobby has paid the adoption fees, Ruby asks to take a quick photo for their social media pages. It’s a big deal that Mars is finally leaving, and most of the staff join her in sending him off. Some of them even cry, which Noah seems extremely put off by, but Bobby thinks it’s sweet. He sort of feels like the Grinch: a former cat-hater whose heart has just grown three sizes.

He smiles in a million pictures and waits around while the staff take their own selfies and group photos with his new friend. He asks a million more questions about what kind of food and litter to buy, what he actually has to do to take care of him, and what veterinarian they recommend. His fingers frantically tap away at his phone as he tries to write down as many notes as possible.

“I’m going to forget all of this,” he whispers to Noah.

“It’s a cat, mate, not a baby.”

Bobby glares. “It’s kind of like my child, though, innit?”

They argue over the term ‘fur baby’ until the staff has wished Marzipan a proper goodbye, complete with a dozen treats and lots of kisses on the head. He doesn’t make a peep as Bobby and Noah load him into the cardboard box and into the car. Just a perfect gentleman.

“You better hope to God that MC doesn’t see any of those posts,” Noah deadpans.

Bobby slams on the breaks before he can help it.

Noah waits in the car when they reach the pet store, Bobby hopping out quickly to grab food and litter. He scrolls through the list on his phone and asks the store employee a million questions, who answers them in such a tone that has Bobby apologizing after each one. In the checkout queue, he picks up a few bags of treats (in different flavors, of course, because Marzipan might wind up being picky) and a few extra toys (because he might not like the ones from Amazon).

When Bobby gets back in the car, Marzipan is once again fast asleep on Noah’s lap. He gives the English teacher an incredulous look. “Are you trying to steal my cat?”

“He was crying so I let him out,” Noah lies. His cheeks flush pink. “Really loud. Almost wailing.”

Bobby hums. “Hm, I bet. He has to go back in the box.”

“Why?” Noah pouts.

“Uh, because it’s not safe? You wouldn’t put a baby on your lap, would you?”

Noah grumbles but returns Marzipan to the box anyway. He laughs at the amount of treats Bobby had bought and, once they finally reach the flat, helps Bobby drag in all his Amazon boxes before unloading the car. He lets Bobby carry Marzipan inside, and once the door is securely closed behind them, watches in amusement as his friend absolutely panics when it comes time to unbox him.

It’s a bit like watching a new father change his first diaper, he thinks. Kind of like how he’d been with his siblings when he was much younger and they’d just been born. Afraid to do the wrong thing and hurt them (or get scolded by his mum). But Marzipan was a cat, after all, and they’re known for their curiosity. Once he’s out of the box, he’s immediately off to wander around on his own.

The two of them scramble to get the litter box assembled. Just in case.

Bobby starts working on the window perch next. “Mate, while I’m doing this, could you take some pictures of him on your phone?”

“What? Why?”

“Because all cat owners have a billion photos of their cats on their phones and want to show them to you all the time. What if MC asks to see funny pictures of him?”

Noah stares blankly. “Tell her you recently got a new phone and lost them all.”

“And lie some more? I’m not going out to buy a new phone, too.”

“Fine,” Noah grumbles. He disappears down the hallway in search of the cat.

Once everything is put together and the dishes have been filled with food and water, Noah finally returns from what appears to have been a full-on photo shoot. Marzipan, unsurprisingly, had immediately made himself at home on Bobby’s bed. Golden hour was upon them and Noah had taken full advantage—photos from all angles, ones of him sleeping, ones of him on his back with his fluffy paws in the air.

He should really make him an Instagram page.

Which, come to think of it— _shit._ What if MC asks to follow him on social media? There’s obviously no posts of Marzipan on his Instagram page like there should be, just a bunch of his baked goods and him with his mates. Four selfies. And he can’t risk posting a photo of his new cat now because all the comments will be about him adopting a new cat. God, what an idiot. He can just tell MC he’s adopted Marzipan recently. That wouldn’t be a lie, and at least there’s a cat to show her at all.

Noah only hangs around for another hour. Once he’s gone, Bobby tries not to panic. He’s truly gotten himself into a mess. He remembers to text MC his address and tells her to come by at whatever time is good for her. He nearly types out an _If you’re lucky, I’ll even bake celebratory cookies_ before he deletes it. ‘If you’re lucky’ sounds flirtatious, doesn’t it? Best not to risk it.

He does decide to bake cookies, though.

After a shower and a cup of tea, Bobby tucks himself into bed, trying to listen for Marzipan in the dark. He hears the digging around of litter, the jingling of a toy, and then silence.

Then he feels the vacant side of the bed depress. Tiny cat paws start kneading biscuits next to him before Marzipan curls into a ball, seemingly content to spend the night sleeping there. Bobby thinks this should have been more difficult—surely the cat would’ve needed more time to adjust to him? He sighs. Cat behavior definitely isn’t his forte, so he’s content to leave it as a simple mystery.

Still on baker’s hours, Bobby’s awake as soon as the first glint of sunlight peeks through the windows. Marzipan is still asleep next to him, sprawled out on his back and snoring lightly. A million thoughts run through his mind as he takes in his new normal. To begin, his routine is going to change: Marzipan gets fed first, then Bobby can put on the kettle and go about the rest of his day. Today, that means tea and deep-cleaning his flat until it’s suitable for outside visitors (Noah doesn’t count). Then he’ll have to get back into student mode and pray to God his brain doesn’t fire off any inappropriate jokes. It’s a large ask considering the subject material.

Bobby’s morning goes like this:

  1. Feed Marzipan the correct amount of food as dictated by the feeding guidelines on the side of the bag
  2. Start the coffee machine
  3. Hook his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the living room and—
  4. Begin deep clean
  5. Stub his toe on the couch two separate times and swear loudly
  6. Take a cute photo of Marzipan lounging in the window perch
  7. Small break from cleaning to consume two additional cups of coffee
  8. Clean faster
  9. Respond to MC’s text saying she’ll be by around two-o’clock
  10. Complete deep clean



After a shower, Bobby puts on what can only be described as his best Noah cosplay: a respectable t-shirt and cardigan combination, khaki pants, and a pair of white, low-top Converse All-Stars. If it works for Noah and his dry-toast personality, Bobby figures it’s safe enough for another not-date.

He immediately gets to work on his cookies.

Since his chocolate chip cookie assignment had gone terribly wrong, Bobby has sworn off them for the time being. They haven’t been inspiring. Plus, after he’d baked his own batch out of spite and had to eat them all, he doesn’t want to eat another one for a very long time. He’s going with lemon butter cookies today—a safe choice, but he knows they’ll turn out great. Plus he doesn’t have to refrigerate the dough overnight, so he has plenty of time.

Apron tied securely around his neck, he gathers up his dry ingredients: butter, sugar, all-purpose flour, salt, and two lemons. He preheats the oven to 177 degrees and begins working on the dough. First, two sticks of better and a cup of sugar get beaten together. In goes a tablespoon of lemon zest, followed by one-and-a-half tablespoons of fresh lemon juice and two cups of flour. Finally, in goes a three-quarter teaspoon of salt.

Marzipan sits on the floor by his feet, staring up at him with his large, green eyes. Bobby gives him a quick scratch on the head, laughing out loud when he leaves behind a smear of flour.

Once the cookies are spread out evenly on a pair of baking sheets and popped into the oven, Bobby gets to work on the glaze: a half-cup plus two tablespoons of confectioner’s sugar whisked together with another tablespoon of lemon juice and a tablespoon of softened butter. He waits until the cookies have completely cooled before frosting them and garnishing with additional lemon zest.

Just to make sure they aren’t poison, Bobby pops one into his mouth and smiles. Yep, he’s still got it.

The remaining cookies get assorted neatly onto a tray and left on the coffee table. He waits until closer to two to start the kettle again, and digs out his finer assortment of teas, plucking out the Earl Grey because he knows it goes well with lemon. Marzipan continues watching him; if he could talk, Bobby’s confident he’d tell him he was doing too much. Maybe coming off a bit desperate. But his mum had drilled into him that he should always be a gracious host even if he didn’t enjoy his company, and he enjoys MC’s company a lot, so that’s that.

His doorbell chimes a few minutes before two. Marzipan runs under Bobby’s feet to hide under the couch, and he feels a bit sorry for him. Door pulled open, MC stands on his stoop with her signature leather bag hiked up high on her shoulder and her hair tied up in some sort of bun. The dark-rimmed glasses are back and she’s wearing a mustard yellow turtleneck Bobby hasn’t seen before. All business, she is. Bobby’s suddenly glad he’d made an effort.

“MC!” he greets, pulling her into a quick hug before moving aside and ushering her in. Autumn was well upon them now, chill included. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says, shutting the door behind her.

“It smells lovely in here! Were you baking?”

Bobby grins. “’Course I was! Lemon butter cookies at the ready. Can’t be a bad host when you’re doing me such a massive favor.”

MC sets her bag down in a high-back armchair Bobby had gotten off the sidewalk. He’s suddenly aware of all his thrifted furniture, none of it matching, and insecurity settles in the pit of his stomach. MC’s place was probably home-y and warm, full of plants and trendy décor and furniture she’d been able to afford full-price.

“Your place is—” She’s cut off by a loud meow. Marzipan has come out from under the couch and planted himself right at MC’s feet. He’s giving her that same wide-eyed look he’d given Bobby. No one can resist it, it seems, because MC is immediately sat on the floor to pet him. “Ohmigod, how cute! What’s its name?”

“Marzipan,” Bobby replies. It hadn’t sounded funny-in-a-bad-way until now.

MC looks up at him, her eyes full of affection. “Because you’re a baker! I love it!”

Bobby’s cheeks turn pink. “Thanks,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s, uh—a recent addition. Haven’t had him long, but he seems to be settling in all right.”

“What a sweet boy you are,” MC coos at him. She stands and looks at Bobby. “Where should we sit?”

“Couch or dining table?”

MC cocks an eyebrow. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

Bobby smiles. “I could ask you the same thing. The dining table’s small—one of them cheap ones from IKEA. The couch is more comfortable, but—”

“It’s a couch,” they say in unison.

MC grabs her bag and nods in the direction she assumes the dining room is in. “Table?”

MC’s lesson starts with the basics of anatomy. She’d printed out worksheets that Bobby has to label. He raises an eyebrow—he doesn’t even know the names of all of his own parts, let alone all the ones a woman has. It only takes five minutes for panic to set in. There’s no way he can teach sex ed if he’s already out of his depth over an anatomy worksheet.

She notices the look on his face and her gaze softens. “Don’t panic yet,” she says, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “The worksheets are the first day’s homework after a full anatomy lesson.”

“Can’t we just skip this part?”

MC laughs. “And then what? They won’t know where you’re talking about when you say pregnancy starts in the fallopian tubes.”

“Well, I mean,” Bobby gestures at the worksheet, “the only tube-looking things are right there.”

“One less bit to label, then.”

He could swear she winked at him.

They work well into the evening, with MC sending him a website he can use to make online quizzes. The kids seem to do best with memory games, she tells him, so she always has an interactive game to go along with the anatomy worksheets. It doesn’t take long for Bobby to realize why all her students get such good grades—she uses methods he would’ve never thought of. Outstretched arms with each hand holding an inflated balloon to represent fallopian tubes and ovaries, for example.

By the time Bobby’s cookies are gone, he’s at least drafted a list of nearly 30 questions to use a pre- and post-survey. And, with MC’s help, he knows the _actual_ answer to all the questions, even if they did argue for five minutes over whether or not girls can urinate while wearing a tampon.

“Are you taking the piss?” MC had asked.

Bobby scoffed. “It’s a whole… _thing_ up there. Surely you can’t.”

“What do you think happens, then?”

“Well, you’d have to take it out, of course. Although I suppose you _could_ pee with it in, but then it’d soak it up like a diaper.”

MC had gagged. “Where do you think women pee from, Bobby?!”

Today, Bobby learned women have separate holes for tampons and urinating. And that is why he’s a Home Economics teacher.

MC stays long enough that Bobby offers to cook them some dinner and, to his surprise, she accepts. He opts for a quick pad thai since they both have to be up early and gets to work chopping whatever vegetables he has left in the fridge. They talk the whole time—about their families, funny stories from their childhoods, their students this year. There’s never a lull; Bobby could listen to her for hours.

MC peers over his shoulder. “Anything I can do to help?” She realizes what she’s said after a few seconds and chuckles. “You’re a literal chef. What could I possibly help with?”

Bobby chuckles, too. “Even a professional chef needs help sometimes. Wanna make the sauce?”

“Sure!” MC smiles.

“The ingredients are on the counter next to the fridge. Bowls are in this cabinet over here.” With his wooden spoon, he points to a cabinet above his head. Once MC has a bowl and a set of measuring spoons, Bobby continues. “It’s been a while since I’ve mad pad thai sauce, so I’m working off memory here. Let’s go with three tablespoons of the fish sauce to start.”

Behind him, he hears the opening of a lid. “Got it! What’s next?” MC asks.

“A tablespoon of soy sauce and two tablespoons of rice vinegar.”

“Okay.”

“One more tablespoon of sriracha.”

He hears the tablespoon clanging against the side of the bowl. “Done!”

Bobby hands over a set of clean measuring spoons. “Five tablespoons of brown sugar, please.”

MC bumps him with her hip. “You got it, chef.” A few seconds go by. “What’s next?”

“Last ingredient!” Bobby says. “Two tablespoons of peanut butter then give it a good whisk.”

He turns down the heat on the stove and turns around. Bobby’s kitchen is so tiny they’re basically back-to-back, flush against one another. He’s so close he can smell her shampoo and it all feels a bit too intimate for coworkers.

“All done,” she says, pride evident in her voice.

Bobby dips a pinky into the sauce and tries it. “Delicious. What do you think?”

MC mimics him, humming an acknowledgement as she pretends to think it over. “Not bad,” she jokes. “I guess you’re pretty good at this.”

They decide to eat on the couch, Marzipan squishing himself between them, and continue their conversation from earlier. MC stops storytelling every so often to pet the cat or offer him a tiny bite of egg. He doesn’t accept it, and Bobby jokes there’s no way he can be his if he doesn’t enjoy a good pad thai.

“Must be that awful sauce he doesn’t like,” MC says.

Bobby barks out a laugh. “Must be.”

As soon as the dishes are in the sink and the dining room table has been cleaned off, MC thanks him profusely for dinner and bids him goodnight. Bobby and Marzipan stare at each other, both with wide eyes, before the latter heaves a deep sigh.

“Pal, I know.”

Marzipan mewls and trots off to where his litter box is set up. Oh, to be so simple.

Bobby strips down to his boxers and tucks himself into bed. He spends a few minutes scrolling through social media before his phone vibrates with a message from Noah.

**How’d it go?**

Bobby can only think of one reply:

**_Mate I am so fucked_ **


	5. bigfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby needs a distraction

Bobby’s focus has gone to shit.

It’s strange, you know, feeling like this as an adult. As a teenager it’d been so much simpler: have crush, be too shy to do anything about it, yearn longer than necessary, rinse, repeat. Five simple steps. He’s better equipped now—less insecure, has things to offer, has relationship experience—yet it still feels the same. It’s all-encompassing and slightly embarrassing.

Getting through classes on Monday had been torturous. He’d pre-planned something easy, just teaching the kids how to make a day’s worth of simple meals: pancakes or waffles for breakfast, chicken or egg salad sandwiches for lunch, pasta e ceci—pasta with chickpeas, one of Bobby’s favorites—for dinner. Nothing that required too much brain power because Bobby didn’t have enough to spare.

Immediately after arriving home, he flops onto his bed face-first and sighs into the mattress. He can’t think about anything other than MC, how it felt to be so close together in his tiny kitchen. The smell of her perfume. How it’d feel to be like that all the time, years from now and far beyond this insatiable crush. The way she’d feel against him if he wrapped his arms around her from behind. Or the way he’d feel standing between her legs as she sat on the counter.

“Stop it,” he scolds himself, words muffled by the mattress. Marzipan is sat patiently beside his head, probably in search of dinner, and Bobby knows he needs to get it together. He reaches a hand out and Marzipan nuzzles into it within seconds. “I know,” he says. The cat doesn’t respond.

After feeding Marzipan, he microwaves himself some leftover pad thai and retreats to the couch to do his bloody homework. There’s something truly torturous about having such an intense crush and having to label reproductive parts as a homework assignment and the context isn’t lost on him. Bobby mutters a few choice swear words under his breath and keeps repeating why me? why me? why me?

Homework was a good distraction. Before long, he had both reproductive systems memorized anatomically and was moving on to figuring out his own lesson plans. Maybe it’ll be easier if he does this on his own, he thinks—put a little bit of distance between him and MC and reconvene at a later date. Of course, his mum had told him before he’d moved to London that distance made the heart grow fonder. If that’s true, he’ll definitely be in some shit.

Noah hadn’t brought up the text at lunch. Even if they’ve most likely moved into ‘good mates’ territory by now, Bobby doesn’t want to go there. Not yet. He isn’t fourteen anymore and having a crush is almost embarrassing at his age. Especially on a coworker. Rahim and Priya have their situationship going on, sure, but from talking to him, Bobby hasn’t gotten the impression it was all that serious. Less to blow up in their faces if it winds up going badly.

For now, he’ll have a half-assed wank and try to push any thoughts of MC far, far out of his mind.

Except it doesn’t really work. Tuesday’s much the same as Monday. Bobby’s mind is still all over the place, leaving him unable to focus. By the time his lunch hour rolls around, it’s so obvious that Noah and Rahim don’t even have to rib him.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were fucked,” Noah comments. He sits across from Bobby and instantly adorns a sympathetic look.

Rahim whips around from his spot in front of the microwave. “Like, literally?”

“No,” Bobby glares. “Emotionally.”

“Oh, I was gonna say,” Rahim chuckles. “That would’ve been quite the feat. MC has been here as long as me—coworkers grafting on her have had a zero-percent success rate.”

Bobby groans, trying to unhear Rahim’s words. “Thanks, mate.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t very helpful,” Noah says, frowning at Rahim. “We all know how tricky relationships are in this world, you especially.”

“Look,” Rahim says, hands up in defense, “all I’m saying is no one I’ve known has ever had a successful graft. I’m not saying he don’t have a chance.”

“Can we please not discuss—”

Rahim continues: “I reckon he does, actually.”

Time grinds to an immediate halt. It feels like the beginning to one of those cheesy teen rom-coms with a record scratch and frame freeze. “You what now?” Bobby asks slowly.

“Mate, I can totally see it.” Rahim turns to Noah. “Can’t you?”

Noah shrugs. “Don’t drag me into this.”

“But we’ve got to hype up our boy! I think they’d work, and he’s already gone for ‘er—”

Bobby’s head feels like a tilt-a-whirl. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about her like—”

Sat next to one another, Rahim nudges Noah in the side. “Mate, we should join forces and make this happen.”

Noah sputters. “Join forces? Make what happen?”

“Bobby and Mags.”

It’s Bobby’s turn to choke. “Mags?”

Rahim shrugs. “It’s what Priya and Chels call her. Anyway, not important.” He turns to Noah. “Are you in, then?”

“I’m not Tinder, mate,” he responds, not looking up from his phone. “Personally, I think these things turn out worse if you try to force it.”

“It’s not really forcing, is it?” Rahim counters. “It’s more… encouraging.”

Noah’s clacking out a text as he says, “It is forcing if you don’t know how she feels. Bit sus to shoehorn her into a relationship without her knowing, don’t you think?”

“Guys—” Bobby tries to cut in.

“Ugh,” Rahim groans. “That’s not what I’m doing and you know it.”

“ _Guys—_ ”

“And did you ever stop to ask yourself if this is actually what Bobby wants?” Noah continues. “Maybe you’re trying to force two square blocks into a round hole.”

“I’m sure Bobs would love to be in a round hole,” Rahim jokes, wiggling his eyebrows in Bobby’s direction. The Scot groans loudly. “Nah, in all seriousness, mate—do you want a relationship? Doesn’t have to be with MC, just in general.”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “What I really don’t want is to be havin’ this conversation with you lot right now.”

Rahim stabs his salad and shoves a massive forkful of spinach into his mouth. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to, I’m just wondering where your head’s at is all. I know Noah’s sworn off relationships since his last one.”

“Have you?” Bobby asks, turning his attention to the English teacher. “I mean, I know you told me about Hope and all, I just didn’t think she’d done that much of a number on you.”

Noah finally shoves his phone back in his pocket. “It’s not that I’ve sworn off,” he explains, glaring at Rahim, “I just think my trust has been shaken a bit. It’s not really fair to jump into something when you’ve got these massive walls up.”

“Fair. What’s going on with you and Priya?” Bobby asks, his attention back to the golfer.

Rahim shrugs. “It’s not anything serious, just a bit of fun. I think I’m a bit too young for her, personally.”

“Really?” Noah asks, almost surprised. “I thought you were quite into her.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I definitely am. I like her a lot, it’s just… I don’t like her like _that_ , you know? We’re in agreement about it, at least.”

“She feels the same, then?”

“We’ve talked about it,” Rahim elaborates. “We’re great as mates and obviously there’s a lot of sexual chemistry, but not…”

“Relationship chemistry?” Bobby offers. Rahim nods, earning a chuckle from the Scot. “Funny—Noah’s been talking a lot about chemistry these last few weeks.”

Rahim suddenly perks up. “Right, enough about me and my chemistry. Let’s get talking about biology.” He wiggles his eyebrows again.

Bobby groans. “Quit doing that, it’s creepy.”

“Do you like her, though?” Rahim asks, suddenly dead serious.

Bobby’s mouth opens and shuts a few times, now incapable of forming coherent thoughts. He wants to say no. He knows it’s the right thing to say, all things considered. But he’s always found it hard to lie, even when it’s to his detriment.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Noah says. “It’s alright, mate. You could do a lot worse.”

Bobby’s cheeks grow warm. “It’s just a bit inconvenient, innit? Rule one of having a job is don’t date your coworkers.”

“Wouldn’t have met her otherwise,” Rahim argues. “It’s not, like, strictly forbidden or anything.”

“When did you and Hope start working here together?” Bobby asks Noah. “I know you said you met at, like, a conference or something but she was at Priya’s party, so.”

Noah tenses. “A few months before the breakup. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but there weren’t a lot of positions open in her specialty, so she ended up here.”

“Is it awkward now?”

“Eh,” Noah shrugs. “Maybe it was a bit in the beginning, but I’m not really the awkward type. It’s easier to just pay it no mind.”

Rahim snorts. “Look at this joker trying to play it cool. He used to hide in here a hundred times a day so he wouldn’t run into her.”

“Fuck off,” Noah laughs. “Deffo wasn’t a hundred.”

“Ninety-eight at least,” Rahim fires back, a large grin spread across his face. “He almost had to start paying rent, he was in here so much.”

“Simmer down,” Noah chuckles, miming it with his hands. “Back to Bobby and his problems.”

The Scot glares. “I do not have problems.”

“Well, we don’t know, do we?” Rahim says. “You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with your relationship history.”

“It’s typical, though,” Bobby replies. “Standard history.”

Rahim and Noah roll their eyes in tandem. “Fine, I’m not too proud to pry. How many girlfriends have you had?” Rahim asks.

“Like, serious ones? Two.”

“How long?” Noah joins in.

Bobby does the math in his head. “Er, one was nearly a year and the other was two and a half.”

“Which one was the more recent one?”

“The longer one,” Bobby answers. “It ended about a few months before I left Glasgow.”

“Was that part of the reason you left?” Rahim asks.

“A part, yeah.” He’s not ready to tell them about the hospital yet. “I think I’ve told you I was a bit of a late bloomer, so my first real relationship wasn’t until after secondary. Standard first relationship, to be fair. Nothing really good or bad—a learning experience, I suppose.” Rahim and Noah both nod, having had one of those, too. “The other one was, uh… a bit of a scorcher.”

Noah frowns. “Didn’t end well?”

“Well, you know me, right?” Bobby replies, straightening his posture. “Like, I can be a bit of a people-pleaser. I know this about me, but I think other people see it as me being wishy-washy a bit so they never really know if I’m serious. And I am! Once I’m with a girl, I’m so serious.”

“But…?” Rahim prods.

“The girl I was with, we’d been mates for a while. Realized one day there were actual feelings there, so we decided to make a go of it. But she never felt like she knew where she stood with me, no matter how much reassurance I tried to give her. And, well, you know how quickly a relationship like that falls apart.”

“Was it mutual?”

Bobby snorts. “Oh, I’m not done. So not only am I shit at the whole reassurance thing, I’ve loads of mates that are girls, right? So it was just a recipe for disaster. She thought I was cheatin’ so she made sure to do it first.”

“Oh, mate,” Noah replies sadly. “That’s so shit.”

“Gave up a bit after that one,” Bobby says. “I really loved her, you know? I know I was shit at showing it, but my feelings were real.”

“That’s rough,” Rahim chimes in. “Sorry, bro.”

Bobby shrugs, not much he can do about it now. Everything happens for a reason and all that. He’s had plenty of time to grow and heal from it, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to jump in again with both feet. Maybe for the right person. And, even if Rahim is convinced that’s MC, he’s still going to keep his walls up. He’s not sure he could handle getting burned again. Not like that—not by someone he loved.

“Anyway, in happier news,” Rahim continues, “Priya’s throwing a Halloween party next Saturday and asked me to invite you.”

Bobby’s eyebrows raise, his interest piqued. “Yeah?”

“You too, bro,” he adds, turning to Noah. “Costumes required, though. No chickening out like last year.”

Noah glares as he begins gathering his stuff. “I didn’t _chicken out_. I told you a million times: the feathers I ordered didn’t come in time and I was not showing up to your party as a naked chicken.”

“Bullshit!” Rahim argues. “I told you I had loads you could borrow.”

“Yeah, and you never explained why you just had loads of feathers lying around. It was sus, bro.”

Rahim rolls his eyes but stays quiet. Bobby muffles a laugh. “Moving on. Bobs, this is why you need to come. We can’t let Gary win the costume contest for the third straight year.”

“Who’s Gary?”

“A mate of Rahim’s,” Noah answers. “Nice lad.”

A frown stretches Rahim’s features. “Always wins the bloody costume contest, though. I’m just sick of it.”

Bobby laughs, wordlessly accepting the challenge. Like Noah, he begins gathering his stuff as he goes over a million costume ideas in his head. He’d been to a few Halloween parties in uni and always went for the obvious and wore a kilt. One time he’d gone as Nessie. Something told him he wouldn’t be winning anything with a costume like that—not if it wasn’t enough for Noah to win as a naked chicken.

“I’ll be there,” he decides. Rahim looks ecstatic.

“Yeah? Priya will be pleased as punch, mate.”

As casually as he can muster, he asks, “Who else will be there, then?”

Noah and Rahim share a look and start laughing. “No sauce.”

“Not even a little bit,” Rahim laughs.

“Wondering if your missus will be there?”

“Ain’t he?” Rahim laughs. “But to answer your question… Yes, she will. Much bigger party than the last one, too. You’ll get to meet the rest of the crew.”

The party is a great distraction. All the energy Bobby would normally put into pining, he puts into coming up with a costume that’ll win him the contest. Of course he focuses on work, since he’s a responsible and dependable educator. And his homework, too—because he’s still a responsible and dependable educator. By the end of the week, he’s ready to throw together a 5-foot-8 replica of the male reproductive system, fully labeled and ready for someone to quiz him. He’s positive he could pass. That means he’s ready to teach.

By the middle of the following week, Noah has decided on and executed his costume. He’s gone full literary: an impressive rendition of Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman, fully equipped with prop jack-o’lantern. He texts Bobby a photo, asking if he thinks the bloody neck stump is too much.

 _As long as Hope doesn’t show up as Katrina Van Tassel it’s fine_ , he writes back.

Noah responds with lightning speed.

**Ugh that’s not even how the story goes. It’s Ichabod Crane vs Brom Bones for Katrina**

_Wow fascinating_

_Hope u get laid soon_

Rahim’s torn between going as a Greek god or a character of his own creation, Violet Man. Over lunch on Friday, he explains the lore and characters of his comics to Bobby while the three of them indulge in the Halloween treats he’d let the kids make earlier in the day. No instructions—the only rule had been to make a Halloween-inspired treat and have some fun. Something easy to finish off the week because it’s not like any of them were paying attention anyway. Everyone’s thoughts—Bobby’s included—were on Halloween.

“I wanna go as Violet Man,” Rahim says, shoving another marshmallow ghost into his mouth, “but will anyone get it? It’s no fun when you have to explain your costume.”

“Free promo for your comics, though,” Noah replies. He’s been picking at the crackers with spider-shaped cheese cut-outs for the better part of fifteen minutes. “But it’s just a Halloween party, mate. It’s meant to be fun. Go as whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but—”

Noah munches on another cracker. “And, historically, you always have the worst costume anyway.”

“Bro! Rude.”

“What are you going as?” Noah asks, turning to Bobby. “I mean, whatever it is, we all know it’ll be better than Rahim.”

Bobby strokes his chin, pretending to ponder. “Was thinking of going as Purple Man.”

***

The outside of Priya’s flat can only be described as a knock-off haunted attraction. Animated decorations are stuck everywhere—the bushes, the front of the brick façade, on her front door. Purple and orange lights twinkle; a loud, thumping bass can be heard through the door. As Bobby lets himself in, he realizes it’s “Monster Mash” and smiles.

Priya meets him in the entry and Bobby’s breathing stops. Black latex clings to her frame, wrists to ankles, while a whip dangles from her stiletto nails like a bad omen. A bright, warm smile looks out of place as she greets Bobby with a hug as tight as her costume.

“You made it!” she sings. Bobby starts praying in his head. He must’ve been a really, really good person in a past life to have wound up at a school with this many beautiful women. “Nice costume,” she winks. “Everyone’s scattered about. There’s tons of drinks in the kitchen.”

“You look unreal,” Bobby says in lieu of a thanks. “There’s always been something about Catwoman, eh?”

Priya laughs. “You really can’t go wrong with this much latex.”

“A foolproof plan,” Bobby grins. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you knew exactly what you were doing.”

They walk together to the kitchen, making idle small talk the whole way. Priya wants a do-over of their Cardi B lip-sync and Bobby’s all too eager to oblige. After a few drinks, of course. If MC’s going to be in the audience, he’ll need a bit of liquid courage.

The Headless Horseman intercepts him as he’s in the middle of fixing himself a drink. It’s an impressive costume, all things considered. Bobby can barely see the eye holes cut out of the bloody neck stump, giving an almost seamless look to the entire thing. The prop jack-o’lantern is wearing a menacing expression, all pointy teeth and narrowed eyes. A cape buckles at the nape of his real neck, draping to the backs of his knees.

“I’m voting for you for best costume,” he says, pouring another shot of scotch into his drink. He can feel Noah’s eyes boring into him. “What? I’m Scottish, I’m allowed.”

“I used your fake blood recipe,” Noah says, finally moving to make his own drink. He dunks a ladle into a bowl of smoking punch. “Turned out pretty good.”

Bobby grins. “Powdered sugar and cocoa powder always works.”

“Nice costume,” he says, eyeing Bobby up and down. “How’d you decide on… that?”

Bobby snorts, looking proudly down at his seashell bra. “Mermaid Man? It’s a classic! Plus the ‘M’ on my belt buckle stands for McKenzie and it’s strategically placed.”

“McKenzie, huh? Not… Magdalena, maybe?” Bobby’s cheeks grow warm. “Come on, let’s go to the lounge.”

Priya’s lounge is small, not nearly big enough for everyone currently packed into it. There are bodies everywhere doing everything. Drinking, dancing, laughing—the atmosphere is infectious. Noah steers him to a group near the middle, Rahim’s tall frame immediately recognizable. He claps Bobby up as soon as he notices him, complimenting his costume. He’s dressed as Batman, undoubtedly influenced by Priya’s choice.

“While you’re here, let me introduce you to everyone you didn’t meet the first time,” Rahim says. He wraps his arm around a guy Bobby’s height with bleached blond hair. “This is the Gary I was telling you about last week.”

Bobby pegs his costume right away. “Sick costume, mate,” he says, clapping him up. “I love Buffy.”

Gary laughs. “Was never much of a fan myself,” he explains, his words muffled by the fake vampire fangs in his mouth, “but this one said we needed a ‘couples costume’ this year.”

The blonde woman next to him, dressed as Buffy, playfully rolls her eyes. “Hi, I’m Lottie.” Instead of extending her hand, she pulls Bobby into a friendly hug. Her prop stake digs into his back. “So silly of me to think Gary would make a perfect Spike with his hair.”

“Cool accent,” Bobby says. “And, to be fair, his makeup looks dope.”

Lottie grins. “Do you think? I’m a makeup artist but I don’t usually do special effects stuff. I wasn’t sure anyone would get it.”

“You joking? The outfit’s a dead giveaway. You both killed it.”

She turns to Rahim. “I like this one. Keep him.”

Before Batman can respond, an ear-piercing shriek rings out and a mop of white-blonde hair sprints towards him from the doorway. Before he can greet Chelsea, he’s engulfed in another bone-crushing hug. Well, as bone-crushing as Chelsea’s tiny frame can be. It’s more like being hugged by a litter of kittens, like when Marzipan falls asleep on his chest.

“Bobby! You made it!”

“Sure did,” he laughs, gently grabbing her by the shoulders to get a better look at her costume. 

Her hair is pulled into high pigtails, extensions in so they fall a few inches past her shoulders. A tight pink mini dress is partnered with a pair of opaque white knee socks and platform shoes. Bobby doesn’t even need to look at the ‘BABY’ choker she’s wearing to know who she is.

“Eat your heart out, Emma Bunton! Nailed it, Chels.”

“Ohmigod, you are so sweet! Thank you, babes!” She gives him a peck on the cheek. Bobby wipes away the sticky lip gloss with the back of his hand, which is now covered in glitter. “I am _so_ in love with this look. You look so good with a white quiff! Makes your eyes pop!”

Subconsciously, Bobby reaches up to touch the wig he’d spent way too much time hairspraying into place. He can’t help but smile. It’s not hard to see why MC—or anyone, really—is friends with Chelsea. She’s a hurricane, for sure, but it’s the perfect storm of friendship, warmth, and love instead of all the bad stuff.

“Are you doing all right?” Bobby asks, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Ooh, is there prosecco?”

“You know, I think I saw a bottle with your name right on it.”

Chelsea swats at his chest. “You shouldn’t lead a girl on like that.”

They weave their way through the mass of bodies, attempting to reach the kitchen. Chelsea’s impossible to lose—she’s nearly Bobby’s height in her platform shoes and her white pigtails bob with every step. She squeals and hugs everyone she sees and they all greet her just as warmly in return.

“How are you so good with people?” Bobby asks as they reach their destination. He grabs a plastic wine glass—the bottom covered in tacky purple jewels, a spider glued to the stem—and begins pouring her drink.

“Oh, I’ve been to tons of workshops.” She thanks Bobby as he hands the drink over. “Is this weird for you? This whole party thing?”

Bobby leans against the counter. “Why would it be weird?”

“Well, like…” Chelsea furrows her eyebrows, trying to find the right words. “Like, I was the newbie once, right? Sometimes it’s just hard coming into these groups when everyone’s already friends.”

“Eh,” Bobby shrugs. “I could’ve tried coming into a much worse group, to be fair. You lot have been a dream.”

Chelsea beams. “Aw, Bobs! We love you, too!”

They spend a long time drinking together in the kitchen. Chelsea’s surprisingly sturdy, throwing back a few glasses of bubbly before moving on to gin. Every so often she’ll actually pour it into a glass with a lime wedge, but she mostly drinks it straight from the bottle.

She tells Bobby all about her life—how she’d gone to art school and wanted to be an interior designer but it hadn’t worked out. Teaching wormed its way into her life much like it had Bobby’s. Not their first plan, maybe not even in their top ten plans, but they fell in love with it nonetheless. Most importantly, they found comfort in it: the one thing they were good at after failure.

All the drinks they’ve consumed hits Bobby like a ton of bricks. He feels like he’s in a fish bowl, the room a blur of incomprehensible decorations and pounding bass and flashing lights. Noah and Rahim both make their way over in their own states of drunkenness. Rahim drops a small, plastic eyeball in Noah’s drink and waits for him to notice. Everyone laughs until they cry at his strangled scream.

“All right, you lot?”

Fuck. Bobby feels that voice all the way to his dick. Noah steps aside and Chelsea squeals, her girl power partner in crime the perfect complement.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bobby mumbles.

Stunning doesn’t do her justice. She’s the perfect Ginger Spice to Chelsea’s Baby, in a Union Jack leotard and platform red boots. She’s got the wig, too. Bobby’s never had a thing for redheads, but he sure as fuck does now.

“Mags! You made it!” Rahim greets, his tall frame swaying under the influence. “Love the costume! Sporty Spice was always my fave.”

Noah snorts. “Sporty? How the fuck—”

“Thanks, Rahim,” MC smiles. “You and Priya make an enviable duo.”

There’s an actual redhead standing behind her to the right, almost trying to blend into the wallpaper. Bobby can’t peg her costume right away—it’s plain and looks like something from _Downton Abbey_ , which he wouldn’t be caught dead watching.

“Oh, where are my manners,” MC says, turning to place her hand in the small of the redhead’s back. “This is Hannah, my cousin.”

Noah’s spine seems to straighten as he takes her in, a dead giveaway Hannah’s dressed as some literary character Bobby wouldn’t be able to guess with a gun to his head. The English teacher is the first to introduce himself, hand extended, though he’s drunk and has a fake neck stump covering his face so it’s hard to hear him.

“What’s his name?” Hannah whispers to MC.

She looks to Bobby, eyes wide and begging for help. “That’s Noah, right?” she mouths to him. He nods.

What happens next is a masterclass in matchmaking. “Do you remember the bloke I was telling you about last year? The English teacher who made all his students write a term paper on the role of women in _Pride and Prejudice_?”

Hannah looks mesmerized, as if she’s meeting a celebrity for the first time. God, if this is the criteria for dating in the twenty-first century, Bobby is fucked.

For all the grief he gets from his mates, Noah is surprisingly effective when it comes to women. As he fixes Hannah a drink, he waxes poetic about how much he loves Jane Austen and how on point Hannah’s Elizabeth Bennet costume is. Well, he does this as best he can given the unfortunate volume of the room.

“Why don’t we go somewhere quieter?” Bobby hears him ask. Fuck, he’s good. He’s probably been mumbling on purpose.

MC looks impressed as Hannah follows him to the back garden. “He’s good.”

“I was literally just thinking the same,” Bobby replies. “Either I’m extremely drunk and hallucinating, or Noah just pulled a girl within five minutes of her showing up.”

Rahim looks just as gobsmacked. “Uh… did that seriously just happen?”

“Hope’s not here, right?” Chelsea asks, craning her neck around their small group to look into the hallway. “If she sees him with someone, she’ll absolutely freak.”

“I don’t think she is,” Rahim answers. “Priya invited her but she never gave her a definite answer.”

MC rolls her eyes. “They broke up ages ago. He’s allowed to move on.”

Rahim nods. “Yeah. I mean, I know it was pretty serious between them, but he can’t stay single forever just to protect her feelings.”

“Aw, that’s not really fair,” Chelsea butts in. “It’s hard to get over a relationship where you both love each other a whole lot and it just doesn’t work. Like, it hurts so much more when neither of you do anything wrong.”

“Fair,” MC says. “Anyway, if you’re really making me lip-sync with you, I’m gonna need some alcohol.”

 _Embarrassing_ is the only way to describe how fast Bobby moves to fix her a drink, motivated both by seeing the eventual performance and the massive crush he’s hoping Rahim doesn’t mention.

People come and go until it’s just MC and Bobby left in the kitchen. She’s fairly drunk now—he can just barely see the flush of her cheeks under her makeup—and is animatedly sharing a funny story from her first Halloween party at uni. It’s one of those moments Bobby knows will stick in his memory. He’s drunk and hyperfocusing on things he’s never noticed before: a tiny tattoo along her clavicle, the way her eyes light up when she talks about her friends, a strand of her real hair poking out from beneath the wig, the curve of her neck.

And then there’s Bobby, leaning against the counter in a fucking seashell bra and tights, trying not to give anything away. It’s torture. All he wants to do is kiss her, have that movie moment where they lock eyes across a room and smile at one another, wake up next to her. Maybe he’s just really, really drunk, but it all feels too much. Overwhelming.

It’s hard for him to see everything he can’t have right in front of him.

“Bobby?” she asks, a warm hand wrapping around his bicep to get his attention.

 _Get it together, mate._ “Sorry,” he says. “Think I’m just really drunk.”

“That’s why you can’t drink with Chelsea,” MC frowns. “She’s small but I’ve never met anyone who can out-drink her.”

She tosses her empty cup in the bin and moves in front of him. A waft of her perfume makes his dick twitch again. “Do you need some air?”

“Maybe,” he lies. What he really needs is to wank and sleep it off.

Noah and Hannah are still out back, probably too far gone in a discussion on Donne or Marlowe, so MC steers him out the front door. Having adjusted to the suffocating temperature inside, the cold is a shock. He hadn’t brought a coat because he’s a fool, and he frowns as he takes in MC in her leotard.

“I’m fine,” she says, noticing his concern. “I have a coat inside if I get too cold.”

Nearly every flat on Priya’s block is decorated, he notices, some emanating the same party sounds as hers. A few costumed party-goers are also lingering outside. Someone dressed as Sasquatch hides behind a hedge and jumps out as soon as a risqué nurse walks by. A group of lads nearly piss themselves laughing. A few meters away, a couple are sharing a passionate kiss against a brick building.

“Bobby, seriously, are you alright? You look like you’ve no idea what planet you’re on right now.”

 _I’m fine, just experiencing a severe case of unrequited lust._ “Something about Priya’s flat just knocks me on my arse, I guess,” he jokes.

“You weren’t like this the last time.”

 _Because I didn’t feel this way about you back then._ “Drank more this time.”

MC shoots him a look but doesn’t press it. “Okay. Out here suits me just fine.”

“It’s fuckin’ freezing. You don’t have to stay out here.”

MC gazes across the road. “Hm, I don’t trust that Sasquatch. Did you know there’s a ton of people who think he’s the reason people go missing in national parks?”

He can’t help himself. “ _He_? What makes you think Bigfoot is male?”

“Well, you know what they say about big feet.”

Bobby snorts. “Aye, big shoes.”

“Bigfoot doesn’t wear shoes,” MC argues, “therefore—“

“Then how would they reproduce?” Bobby challenges. “There’s, like, multiple Bigfeet, right? So there has to be female ones.”

“Asexual reproduction,” MC answers, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Like starfish.”

“No way.”

MC rolls her eyes. “What’s your theory, then?”

“That there’s Bigfeet of all genders, of course. Or maybe they’re like vampires and they can turn humans. That’s why all those people go missing in parks.”

“Ugh, can you imagine? You’re just a regular person and all of a sudden you turn into a seven foot tall coughed-up hairball.”

Bobby frowns. “Do you think the female Bigfeet shave?”

“There aren’t any female Bigfeet,” MC retorts. “But _if_ they existed, I like to think the Bigfoot is a socially progressive species and are feminists. So they can choose whether they want to or not, and the male Bigfeet recognize their autonomy and don’t cry like wee babies over them having hairy armpits and legs.”

“Oh, Bigfeet are feminists for sure,” Bobby agrees. “Chupacabras, on the other hand, are the truly problematic cryptids.”

They share a look before devolving into a fit of laughter. Tears leak from the corners of Bobby’s eyes as his stomach begins to ache. MC is gasping for air next to him, holding on to him so she doesn’t fall over, repeating _oh fuck I can’t breathe_ over and over into the night like a chant.

Once they settle, Bobby wraps an arm around her and throws caution to the wind, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her temple.

“I’m glad I met you,” he says.

MC squeezes his side. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy. I’ve been playing too much Animal Crossing.
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Love u all.


	6. the bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby spends too much time on social media and in his own head.

Noah wins the costume contest and a brunch date with Hannah for the following weekend.

Bobby wins another hangover and crippling self-doubt.

He spends the whole day in bed, drinking more water than he can possibly ever piss out, with the curtains drawn and duvet up to his chin. Marzipan sleeps soundly in the empty space next to him, occasionally rolling onto his back with his paws in the air. Bobby snaps a few pictures but doesn’t post them to Instagram yet. He’s not ready for anyone to know he’s still alive.

_I’m glad I met you._

It plays on a loop in his brain, the timbre of each word seared into his memory if only to remind him of how stupid he is. He shouldn’t have kissed her. Sure, it was only on her temple, but he still _kissed_ her. He remembers very little from the rest of the party, but he knows he felt something shift between them after that. Whether it was good or bad has yet to be decided.

He remembers an argument in the kitchen. The Australian bird dressed as Buffy was yelling at a guy in sandals for mugging off a friend of hers. Bobby never caught his name, he was just a mop of unkempt curls talking endlessly about a backpacking trip to Patagonia. He and Gary had shared a look and rolled their eyes at the same time. Instant friendship.

He remembers stumbling into the powder room and immediately covering his eyes as two half-naked figures shouted at him to get out. He remembers one of the straps breaking on his seashell bra, so he had to ask Chelsea to tie it back together, leaving one side severely lop-sided. He remembers finally peeing outside, then being too drunk to make it back in, so he laid on the damp, cold grass for a long time.

“Camping out here tonight?” MC had asked, peering down at him with a smile.

“Maybe,” Bobby answered, his eyes squeezed shut to keep the world from spinning. “Wee bit cold, though.”

“Can I help you up?”

Bobby opened one eye slowly, taking in all three versions of MC stood above him. She was still smiling and still not wearing a coat, somehow immune to the cold October air. He hadn’t noticed before, but her nails were painted to match her Ginger Spice outfit. Tiny, glittery Union Jacks on each fingernail.

“You’re always helping me when I’m drunk.” Bobby had taken her hand anyway, his free one planted in the grass to keep him steady. “You’re always helping me with everything.”

She’d just smiled brighter and helped him back inside.

He throws an arm over his eyes and groans. Realistically, he knows he’ll be fine. He knows he’s on okay footing with MC, even if he is beating himself up for kissing her. There are whole uni courses on consent now, and he’d just gone and done it without a thought. But she’d still gone outside to check on him. She’d still helped him inside and smiled at him and hugged him goodbye. So they have to be okay.

He’d wanted to kiss her again. Properly this time, on the lips like a real kiss. He wanted to know what she tasted like. How she felt. If she’d put her hands on his chest or tangle them in his dreads or wrap them around his bicep. Bobby lets his mind wander to the brink of indecency before he reels his thoughts back in, only somewhat ashamed and very, very hard.

Christ. He can’t wank with his cat right next to him.

He distracts himself with social media. Facebook and Twitter are both inundated with political posts, so he finally opens Instagram. Marzipan stirs next to him so Bobby figures he might as well post one of the two-hundred photos he’s already taken of him. Once his feed loads, his eyes are immediately drawn to one of Chelsea’s posts: a full-body shot of her and MC in Priya’s kitchen in their costumes.

_If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends <3_

Fuck. When had they taken that? Chelsea’s holding onto another bottle of gin and they’re angled toward one another, megawatt smiles on both their faces. MC’s eyes are crinkled in laughter and she looks absolutely stunning. She always does, but there’s something so genuine in her candid happiness that he can’t look away from. This is not helping his hard-on. Not even a little bit.

Call it morbid curiosity, but Bobby scrolls through the comments. No, he’s not trying to suss out if MC is seeing anyone and if that possible person has commented. Not at all, because that would be weird. Even if his generation has earned a reputation of being able to find out anything about anyone via the internet, that’d be too much even for him. Since that’s not at all what he’s doing, he doesn’t feel an ounce of relief when he doesn’t see any comments out of the ordinary.

But Chelsea had tagged her, so he clicks through to her page. It’s not creepy if he does it this way. It’s not like he had typed any possible spelling of her first and last name into the search bar and spent hours trying to find her page, only to come up short. If someone tags her and he happens to see it, it’s fair game.

Like everyone else in his group of teacher-friends, her page is set to private. Her bio is blank except for a few science-looking emojis. Her profile picture is definitely a selfie, but she’s wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses so it’s hard to tell it’s even her. But she’s smiling, and he’s seen that smile a million times before. He’d know it anywhere.

His finger hovers above the ‘Follow’ button for a few seconds before he decides against it. He swipes backwards until he’s back on his feed, now aware of the notifications he’d missed the first time ‘round. Rahim had tagged him in a group selfie with him and Noah, aptly captioned “Lunch crew does Halloween.” Bobby doesn’t remember taking it, but it explains the handful of new follow requests from Priya, Lottie, Gary, and Hannah. He accepts all of them and follows them back, trying not to feel cool when he sees that he’s one of only a few people Lottie follows compared to the nearly 50,000 people following her.

He scrolls through the comments on Rahim’s post too, laughing to himself at Chelsea’s comment about his lopsided seashell bra with a bunch of cry-laughing emojis. Then he sees one with three fire emojis and his stomach drops all the way to his ass when he sees it’s from MC. So she’d seen the post, liked it and commented on it, saw that Rahim had tagged him, and didn’t follow him. All the more reason he shouldn’t request to follow her, except he clicks on her page again and just stares at it.

Fuck it, he decides, and clicks the button.

She accepts it almost instantly.

His stomach drops to his ass again when he sees the follow request from her. Panicking, he scrolls through his feed to make sure there’s nothing _too_ embarrassing on there. (There’s only one post, from a uni party years ago where he’s in nothing but a kilt with whipped cream covering his nipples, but he refuses to delete that one. It’s the photo he wants used in his obituary, so it has to stay.) Looks like a standard Instagram feed, to be honest, so he accepts it and tries to wait a respectable amount of time before he goes back to her page and scrolls all the way to the bottom of her feed.

He lasts twelve seconds.

There’s an album of photos from the party – a selfie of her doing a peace sign in front of a mirror, then one with Hannah, one with Chelsea, and a group shot with seemingly everyone except him. Her second most recent post is from the beginning of September: a stack of science books next to a mug of coffee captioned “ready for another year!” Bobby can’t help but smile at that one. There’s a photo from late August with a woman who looks just like her, just a bit older: same blue eyes and dark curls, the same mesmerizing smile. _Sto lat, Mama!_ Her mum.

He scrolls for a bit longer until he comes across a post from the middle of summer. In the first picture, MC is halfway up an indoor rock-climbing wall, back and calf muscles on full display. The harness hooked around her upper thighs accentuates her backside; this time, Bobby has no guilt about staring. He scrolls left. The second photo is her back on the ground in front of the wall, smiling for the camera. There’s an extremely tall, extremely blond man stood next to her with his arm around her shoulder. He’s smiling just as wide.

_Just a pair of rolling stones._

Bobby’s heart stops. He almost feels sick to his stomach.

The blond bloke is tagged. When Bobby clicks through to his profile, he sees that he’s a rock-climbing and wilderness instructor. It’s almost enough for his heart rate to return to normal. Maybe they’re just gym buddies. Except this guy is tall and muscle-y and Swedish and looks like a model. He has a man-bun, for fuck’s sake. _And_ he’s a wilderness instructor, which Bobby has never even heard of. This bloke is so impressive they made up an entire career, just for him.

Not to mention he’d never heard MC talk about being into working out, but then again, their friendship had been mostly focused on him. Aside from her parents, he didn’t know all that much about her.

Fuck, he’s pathetic.

With a resigned sigh, he scrolls back to the top of her feed and double-taps the album from the party. That’s enough social media for the day.

Marzipan mews in his sleep, almost as a reminder to Bobby he never posted any cute pictures of him. As he scrolls though his photo album, picture after picture of his cat in various cute positions, he stumbles across all the pictures he’d taken the night before. There’s a few drunk selfies with stupid filters, a video of him and Chelsea doing an impressive duet of “Stop” by the Spice Girls, an extremely zoomed-in photo he took through the window of Noah and Hannah in the garden, and just as many group shots as everyone else had taken.

As soon as he posts a few, comments start rolling in from his mates back in Scotland. Most are the cry-laughing emoji, while Jonno just comments “oh no mate” with the smiley with huge eyes that almost looks disappointed.

_My costume was ace, you just have fragile masculinity_ , Bobby writes back.

**Not what I was talking about** , Jonno replies.

Bobby can feel his cheeks warm. Of course, he’d mentioned MC to Jonno before, when he explained to him _why_ he had to adopt a cat on short notice and why Jonno had to be the one to help him. But it’d been in passing, like a “ha ha, look at what a big idiot I am” kind of way, and not at all in an “I have a massive crush on my worker and that’s why I keep embarrassing myself in front of her” kind of way. He regrets having done this now, when Jonno’s posting semi-cryptic comments on an Instagram picture both he and MC are in. Like he knows Bobby’s doomed and is just too stupid to realize.

Jonno’s kind of smart that way.

He locks his phone and places it face-down on the bed. Trudging into the kitchen, he measures out Marzipan’s dinner and sets on making his own: microwaved tin soup. It’s certainly not a meal he’ll be posting on his foodie Instagram, but his hangover is still raging and the thought of eating anything else makes him nauseous.

There’s still 23 seconds left on his soup when he hears his phone ding from the bedroom. Bobby doesn’t grab it right away, opting to force down his god-awful dinner in front of the television. At this point, he may as well set his culinary degree on fire.

Once his nausea settles, he puts his empty bowl in the sink and retreats to the comfort of his bed.

**How are you feeling?**

Oh… well. Bobby certainly wasn’t expecting that.

_Shite_ , he replies to MC.

**Too shite for coffee?**

He glances at the clock. Half-past six isn’t too late for coffee, right?

_Maybe I could meet you somewhere after a quick shower._

**Or you could come to mine?**

Jesus. Bobby is absolutely, positively fucked. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

_Sure,_ he replies, as casually as possible. _Just send me your address._

He’s never taken a shower so quickly in his life.

MC doesn’t live too far from the school, on a quiet street lined with hedges. A Halloween wreath still decorates her door, a fake spider staring back at him as he knocks. A quiet panic fills his belly. Almost like butterflies but not quite.

_This isn’t a date._

_This isn’t a date._

_This isn’t a date._

She answers the door in an oversized sweatshirt and a smile. She hugs him. She ushers him inside and closes the door behind them, shielding them from the cold. She cracks a joke about not having any fresh-baked cookies to offer him.

All before he remembers to breathe.

Much like he expected, her flat is cozy and warm. The furniture looks like it’d been selected on purpose rather than plucked off the curb. Dozens of personal photos line the walls, some with people he doesn’t recognize. It’s much more spacious than his own, like a place the two of them would share one day.

_Fuck. Stop thinking like that_ , he scolds himself.

“Welcome to my crib,” she jokes. “Would you like the grand tour?”

“Uh, of course,” Bobby fires back, finally gaining his footing again. “That’s actually the only reason I came.”

She rolls her eyes but gestures around her. “This is the lounge. It’s for… lounging.” They walk a few feet away to the kitchen. It looks a lot like Bobby’s, except there’s fewer gadgets and a bit more counter space. Like Bobby’s flat, there’s a small table and three chairs to the right of the kitchen, a tall stack of books serving as the centerpiece.

There’s a small bathroom in the middle of the hallway, which dead-ends into a pair of bedrooms, one on each side.

“That one’s my flatmate’s,” MC says, gesturing to the one on the left.

Bobby raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t know you had one.”

“She’s not here much,” MC shrugs. “She’s a law student, so she’s either off studying and doing lawyerly things or down in Devon where her boyfriend lives.”

“Bit of a hike,” Bobby comments.

“ _Especially_ for that bloke.” She flicks her bedroom light on, illuminating something straight out of a Pinterest board or perfectly-curated Instagram feed. Bobby tries not to think too hard about the bed and how it’d feel to… well, you know. “And this is my room, where I spend most of my time when my flatmate decides to show up.”

“Not a fan?”

MC shrugs, turning the light back off. Her bare feet pad in the direction of the kitchen. “She’s perfectly fine and pays her share of rent. I’ve certainly had worse roommates, you know? But she’s… It’s hard to explain,” she says, fetching two mugs from a cupboard. “She can be difficult to get along with sometimes.”

She fixes their coffee in a quiet efficiency, not even bothering to ask Bobby how he takes it. He still has no idea why he’s here, what prompted her to invite him over, and he feels a bit awkward just sitting on her couch. A photo on the side table shows a couple—a tall, redheaded man covered in tattoos next to a much shorter woman with long hair and painted red lips. They look happy.

Minutes later, MC joins him on the couch with a pair of steaming mugs. She hands one to him, handle out and already fixed with cream and sugar, and mutes the television. Bobby hadn’t been watching it anyway.

“So,” he starts, feeling hopelessly awkward, “is Hannah as big a nerd as Noah?”

MC snorts. “God, you should’ve heard her when she found out Noah’d be at the party. She had a _fit._ ”

“Like, a bad fit?” he asks stupidly.

“Hannah’s been looking for an excuse to meet him since I told her about that silly term paper he assigned. You’d have thought she was meeting a celebrity.”

Bobby takes a cautious sip from his mug. “Mm, leave it to Noah to make someone fall in love with him and not know it.”

He’s almost jealous.

MC smirks but stays quiet. Bobby’s skull is still throbbing, his hangover repeatedly re-announcing its presence every time he thinks he’s finally fought it off. There are a few times he almost asks for a slice of bread or some crackers, but he doesn’t, he just keeps sipping his coffee and hopes his stomach will forgive him for all the acid.

The shift he had felt between them last night… he feels it again now. It’s almost palpable, mostly awkward. Where MC might have filled the silence before with a story that filled him with warmth and butterflies, she trains her eyes on the muted television and says nothing. Where Bobby might have filled it with bad jokes or an even worse impersonation, he stares at his lap and wonders what the fuck he’s doing here.

“Are you fin—” MC starts to ask, reaching for his mug, but Bobby cuts her off.

“So, you like rock climbing, eh?”

It was supposed to come out normally, like he’d discovered something about her life he’d like to know more about. The way friends talk when they’re starting to get to know one another. Except Bobby’s question comes out all wrong. Accusatory and jealous. More serious than MC had ever heard him sound.

“I… suppose?”

Bobby desperately reels his emotions back in. “Cool,” he replies, sounding neutral again. “That’s cool. I’ve never done it, but—”

“Are you asking because of the picture on my Instagram?” If Bobby wasn’t staring at his lap, he’d see the bemused expression on her face.

“No,” he lies, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

Jealousy is foreign to Bobby. He’s just not the jealous type—never has been. He’d never been gripped by it before, never felt that fire rumble in the pit of his stomach. So why is he feeling it now, towards someone he only knows on an elementary level?

“Okay,” MC relents, the mischievous twinkle in her eye still present. “But, to answer your question, I’ve only tried it once on holiday and I was shite at it. My arms were sore for weeks.”

Bobby swallows his smile, finally meeting her gaze. “What are some of your favorite places you’ve gone on holiday?”

“Obviously, I enjoy Poland because of all the family history, and I went to Paris just to visit the City of Science and Industry Museum,” she laughs. “I love the geography of Iceland.”

“If you had to choose just one?”

MC’s nostrils flare as she chokes down a laugh. “I don’t know that I have a _favorite_ , but the most memorable was certainly the holiday me and some mates took to Ibiza during uni. Well, it’s memorable _because_ I don’t remember much. I certainly had a great time, though.”

Bobby doesn’t think about her in a tiny bikini, sunbathing in the Spanish sun.

Nope, he doesn’t think about that at all.

He adjusts the throw pillow over his lap.

An article he’d read years back suddenly pops into his brain as he tries to think of something else to talk about. “The 36 Questions That Lead to Love,” published by The New York Times. His mates had been making fun of it on social media, in disbelief a few-dozen questions could do much of anything besides start a conversation. They’d gone back and forth asking them, popping in an _are you in love with me yet?_ every few minutes.

“Hey,” he starts, “here’s another question for you: If you could choose anyone to have as a dinner guest, who would it be?”

MC looks caught off guard. “That’s easy,” she replies quickly. “Rosalind Franklin.”

“A scientist, I assume,” Bobby answers, not a clue who Rosalind Franklin is or was.

“How’d you guess?” She’s smiling again. Fuck, she’s always smiling. “What about you? Mary Berry? Paul Hollywood? Prue Leith?” she teases.

He can’t help but scoff. Okay, _yes,_ he loves _Bake Off_ , but he likes other things, too. Like punk music and Cardi B and magic and conspiracy theories (of the harmless variety, not the crazy ones). Everyone always just assumed his life revolved around pastry, like when you express interest in a certain thing and your family only buys you gifts relating to that thing for every single birthday and Christmas until you’re well into adulthood.

“My grandmother,” he finally answers. The smile is instantly gone from MC’s face, going out with a bang rather than a slow burn. Guilt takes its place.

“I’m—”

Bobby forces himself to smile. “Oh, no, it’s fine,” he replies. “I do miss her a lot, but not in a sad way anymore, if that makes sense. She’s the one who taught me how to bake.”

“What was the first thing you made?”

There’s something about the way she readjusts herself that ceases all of Bobby’s brain function. She sits on top of her feet, both of her knees knocking together before falling to the side. She pushes her glasses up higher on the bridge of her nose and angles her body completely towards him. She’s giving all of herself to him in that moment, as they sit on opposite ends of the couch. And, sure, she’s just listening, but Bobby’s had a lot of girls listen to him but never hear him.

“Cookies,” he finally answers. “Uh, oatmeal raisin cookies.”

He’s expecting another smile, maybe a comment about how sweet it was that his grandmother had taught him to bake oatmeal raisin cookies as a young kid. Instead, her nose scrunches up and she mimes vomiting. “Gross. Oatmeal raisin cookies are a travesty. Disgusting.”

What?

“ _What_?”

“Oatmeal raisin cookies are—”

“I heard you,” Bobby interjects, “I’m just not sure I’m comprehending.”

They debate the oatmeal raisin cookie’s credentials for what feels like hours. They debate where it ranks in a list of the Top 5 Best Cookies Currently in Existence. Bobby makes a staunch accusation that MC only thinks they’re disgusting because she hasn’t had a good one; MC’s response is that she’s had loads of pizza, including cheap takeaway and frozen pizza that no human should ever consume, and they were still good on some level. Oatmeal raisin cookies are irredeemable, she argues, and it doesn’t matter who’s in charge of baking them.

Bobby’s offended. For the first time in his adult life, he’s genuinely _offended_. Over an obviously incorrect opinion on cookies.

So, he does what any social media-obsessed twenty-something would do. He posts a Twitter poll.

**Are oatmeal raisin cookies disgusting?** he titles it. The only options are Yes or No.

“What do I get if I win?” MC asks, leaning over to get a glimpse at his phone.

Bobby cocks an eyebrow. “You want to make this a bet?”

“Well, yeah,” MC shrugs. “No fun in just winning bragging rights.”

He groans. “You’re not going to win. But fine, we can make a bet. Name your conditions.”

There she goes, smiling again. “If I win, you have to bake me a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies.”

He groans again. “I’d sworn off making them after they were so rudely butchered by my students. Pick something else.”

“No way,” MC fires back. “I get to choose, and they’re my favorite.”

“Fine,” Bobby agrees, rolling his eyes.

He takes a cautious glance at his phone. ‘ **Yes’** is currently leading 60%-40%.

“Go on, then,” MC urges. “Name yours.”

_If I win, I get to take you on a date._

_If I win, I get to take you on a date._

_If I win, I get to take you on a date._

He’s so close to saying it. He can feel the words biting at the back of his teeth, but he hasn’t got the nerve. Their friendship is still too fresh, too fragile, and Bobby’s biggest fear is making a complete ass of himself over a coworker. He likes his school. He likes his students and the friendships he’s made with his fellow teachers. He doesn’t want to wake up every morning feeling anxious because going to work is awkward now, like it’d been with Noah and Hope.

Maybe more importantly, he wants to hold on to this feeling a little bit longer. He likes the butterflies he gets in his belly. He likes the naiveite and innocence of a new crush. He likes the chase, even if he’d never admit it to himself.

But there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his head, telling him she wouldn’t have invited him over if she didn’t feel similarly. She wouldn’t seek him out and look after him when he gets too drunk. She wouldn’t help him.

_Yes, she would, you absolute pine cone_. Christ. All those things are ones you’d do for a friend. There’s absolutely nothing that indicates she likes Bobby at all other than his hopeless wishful thinking.

His mother had told him once that it’s okay to be selfish sometimes, right before he’d left the hospital to get his teaching license. She’d said it’s okay to take risks and not think about the repercussions until it’s too late. That sometimes you have to force down your fear in pursuit of something better, bigger, and extremely selfish.

“If I win, I get to take—”

Bobby’s cut off by the sound of the front door opening. In walks MC’s flatmate, her ombre hair bellowing behind her from the wind. She’s wearing a wool peacoat and her signature red lipstick, a bag much like MC’s hiked high on her shoulder.

“Mags, I’m—” she starts to yell out.

“I’m right here,” MC responds with a slight giggle. It turns into a full-on roar when her flatmate screams from shock.

“Fuck!” she yells out, a hand moving quickly to cover her heart. “Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

She notices Bobby then, his eyes big as saucers as he sits in between MC and the door. “Oh! You must be Bobby,” she says. She’s much more polite than he expected her to be, but every bit as proper. “Mags told me you might be here when I got home. I’m Marisol,” she says, offering out her hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he responds, shaking it.

All of his momentum has died suddenly, so he makes small talk with the two of them for a while as he tries not to think about how stupid he almost was. Marisol talks endlessly about how great of a weekend she’d had in Devon, about her boyfriend and the train ride and how much she’d managed to study during her trips. It’s not at all like talking to MC, who’s warm and fun and easy to talk to. Marisol is nice but dreadfully boring, the type of person who tries to sound bubbly but winds up sounding condescending instead.

He and MC share multiple _looks_ before he decides to call it a night.

He doesn’t bring up his terms of the bet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone!
> 
> First, let me apologize for how long its taken to update. My life has been a real doozy since early May and it's only now starting to go back to normal.
> 
> Second, I'm not particularly in love with this chapter but I felt like I needed to write more with just Bobby and MC, so here's a start to that. I also didn't proofread it, so please excuse any glaring errors.
> 
> Third, if you're a reader or a writer of LITG fanfiction and use Reddit, please check out the subreddit! https://www.reddit.com/r/LITGFanFiction/
> 
> As always, thank you all for your feedback! Love you all. Let's reconvene and talk about Season 3 soon.


	7. miser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new face joins the mix. Bobby makes a gaffe.

It’s mid-November, and today is Bobby’s first day of teaching sex ed.

Since originally asking him, the head of the school had been able to find a long-term substitute to take on all but one of Joan Knightley’s classes. The block directly after lunch is now Bobby’s only sex ed class, and he spends all day feeling sick to his stomach. There’s plenty of things he’d rather do than talk to a bunch of teenagers about genitals and sex and how porn doesn’t always imitate real life, but it’s too late now.

_Protection,_ Bobby says to himself. _Remember to stress the importance of protection. And consent._

He’d gotten to know his home economics students quite well, so a large portion of his anxiety is stemming from meeting twenty new ones. He knows he’s a friendly guy; easy to get on with and patient and kind. But there’s never any guarantees in teaching and asking a dozen kids to bake cookies under the supervision of a professional chef is different from teaching kids about things they’re probably already doing and assigning homework for the first time.

Fuck. _Homework._

At lunch, Noah seems different. Lighter, somehow, which Bobby suspects is because of his new fling with Hannah. They seem to be getting on quite well, if Noah’s incessant need to talk about her at any given opportunity is any indication. This is in direct contrast to Rahim, whose fling with Priya ended a few days after her Halloween party. He hasn’t said much about it, other than it was bound to happen eventually and he’s doing fine.

He’s certainly _not_ doing fine, but Noah and Bobby don’t press it.

It’s weird, Bobby thinks, how invested they all are in each other’s lives. Maybe their proximity to one another makes it unavoidable. But while he’d consider Jonno his _best_ friend, he never really knew all that much about him. They didn’t talk much about personal things, just about the world around them and work and their hobbies and interests. He knows more about Noah and Rahim’s childhoods than anyone else’s, and he’s only known them two months.

And then there’s MC. They’d been texting much more regularly since he’d swung by her flat, and they’d progressed to following one another on Twitter after his poll. (He’d lost and showed up to work that Tuesday with a tin full of chocolate chip cookies, much to his dismay.) He got all the goss on Marisol and her boyfriend, Graham, who Bobby decided he didn’t like after MC told him the story of how he tried to set up a sex swing in their lounge. They texted about all sorts of things, really. They used to Facetime on Sunday evenings while doing lesson plans until Noah found out and got jealous because he and Bobby used to do that, so they did a three-way Facetime with him included from then on.

Noah participates because he wants to, of course. It has nothing to do with MC and Hannah being related, and him hopelessly fishing for any small nugget of information regarding how the redhead feels about him.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

“She has a summer birthday,” Noah says, pulling Bobby from his thoughts. He and Rahim both turn to look at him, sharing a look that silently pleads for him not to go where they think he’s going. “Is that a good match? Like, compatibility-wise—”

“Mate, don’t,” Rahim warns. “You’re starting to sound like Lottie.” He notices Bobby’s questioning look and sighs. “It’s, like, a tradition of hers every Halloween. Reads our tea leaves and gives us a ‘reading’ and all this other nonsense. None of us have the heart to tell her we don’t believe in it.”

“You don’t?” Bobby asks, but his tone is playful. “Don’t listen to him, Noah. Give us the rundown.”

Rahim groans and pops in his earbuds. “I’m not listening to this.”

“According to the internet, she’s a Cancer. Is that bad? I mean… it’s, like, _cancer_.”

Bobby snorts. “I don’t think it’s that kind of cancer, mate. I’m sure it’s fine. What kind of thing are you?”

“Taurus.”

“The cow?”

Noah looks wounded. “It’s a bull, you dickhead.”

“Oh well,” Bobby shrugs. “I’m the twin one.”

“You have a twin?”

Bobby chokes on a sip of water. “ _What_? No. That’s just my sign, mate.”

“Oh, I was about to say.” Noah looks relieved. “Like, how come I never knew Bobby had a twin?”

“Maybe I’d eaten it in the womb. Not really something you tell someone the first time you meet them, yanno? Like, ‘Nice to meet you, mate. Did you know I used to have a twin but I absorbed it?’ Dark shit.”

Rahim, who has been listening to a sports podcast but still vaguely paying attention, adorns a very disgusted expression. “Ew.”

Noah clicks his tongue. “I thought you weren’t listening? Eat your salad.” Rahim looks extremely offended. “ _Anyway._ This website says Taurus and Gemini is a good combination. We also share ‘karmic ties,’ whatever that means.”

“You’re _soul twins_ ,” Bobby jokes. He tries to hold in his laughter which just makes him snort again.

Noah scowls. “It’s not funny. It could be true.”

“Sure, mate—”

“Do you two really believe this stuff?” Rahim cuts in, ripping an earbud out. “I thought it was just a bit of a laugh.”

“Noah will believe anything that says him and Hannah are meant to be together,” Bobby answers.

Noah rolls his eyes. “That’s not—”

“Oh, he definitely will,” Rahim says. “But we knew that was the case since the Halloween party. You could’ve put a gun to my head and I _still_ wouldn’t have been able to tell you what her costume was meant to be.”

“I mean, it was pretty obvious who she was,” Noah grumbles.

Bobby scrunches up his empty crisp bag and tosses it in the direction of the bin. It misses. “I don’t think I really believe all that stuff, though,” he says, getting up to throw the bag away properly. “What do the stars have to do with your personality?”

“Fuck if I know,” Noah answers, “but women are into it, right? So it must be important.”

“Sure,” Rahim says, clearly over this conversation, “let’s go with that.”

Bobby checks the time and sighs. “Can we talk about how I have to teach my first sex ed class in fifteen minutes? I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”

“Well, don’t,” Noah says, starting to pack up his things. “I don’t have a change of clothes in my car anymore.”

Rahim seems to be the only one feeling sympathetic. He pats Bobby on the back gently, muttering some variation of _good luck_ and _you’re gonna do great_ , but the subtext is clearly thankful he’s not teaching one himself.

The walk to Bobby’s classroom feels like an eternity, like he’s walking to his death a la _The Green Mile_. All he can think about is how he and his classmates used to say orgasm instead of organism on purpose and how red-faced his teachers would become. He knows the kids will take the piss, probably crack a few jokes, and Bobby isn’t a prude but he knows he, too, will be that crimson-cheeked teacher who the kids will love tormenting. Payback for him being on the giving end many moons ago.

The school had assigned him a secondary room for his new class, not far from the cafeteria. It’s much smaller and more cramped than his usual classroom, but now there’s no worry someone might self-immolate. The downside, of course, is how many more desks are now facing him.

As students trickle in, Bobby feels that too-familiar rumble of anxiety settle in the pit of his stomach. His limbs feel jittery, like he can’t possible expend all the energy he has, and the room feels a hundred degrees too warm.

Suddenly, teaching doesn’t feel like it usually does. Bobby feels like he’s drowning, like he’s finally bit off more than he can chew. He’s filled to the brim with self-doubt. Teaching kids how to cook is dead easy because he _knows_ it—has mostly experienced every possible thing that can go wrong, knows all the tips and tricks to make it easier. There’s nothing to be scared of. Sex education is foreign and new and aside from the actual having sex part, Bobby doesn’t know much of anything.

“Alright,” he begins, watching the last of his students trickle in and take a seat, “for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Mr. McKenzie and I usually teach Home Economics which is a far cry from… this.”

A few students chuckle.

“We’re all friends here, so you can call me Mr. Bobby instead.” He sits on the edge of his desk, pushing a pair of fake glasses higher on his nose. It’d been MC’s idea—she said they made him look more serious. “I’ve been asked to teach this class as a favor to Ms. Knightley, but I’ve also been asked to teach it _honestly_. That means I actually have to teach you, I can’t just tell you lot not to have sex. So we’re going to lay down some ground rules.”

The class groans. Teenagers hate rules.

“Oi, I haven’t even said what they are yet!” Bobby chuckles. “All right. The first, and most important, is _respect_. We’re going to be talking about a lot of things that might be uncomfortable, but for us to get through it, we have to respect one another. Respect leads to trust, and the more you trust me, the more comfortable you’ll be asking questions. However, you also have to respect each other. We’re going to be learning about all sorts of sensitive things, and I’m a pretty laid-back guy, but I won’t tolerate any disrespect. Cool?”

Everyone nods. A few students sit up straighter in their seats.

“Cool,” Bobby smiles. “The second rule is that you only get one inappropriate joke for the whole term, consequence free so long as it isn’t crude, so choose wisely.” All the boys grin at this, secure in knowing that penis joke they’re itching to fire off won’t get them expelled. “The third rule is more of a request, but please try and take this class seriously. I had to take sex ed at your age and it was god-awful. I had to learn most of this stuff as an adult or through trial and error, and you never know what you might need to know!”

Bobby shuffles through his bag in search of a folder. Once he finds it, he plucks it out and tosses it on his desk. “Before we get started, I’m going to write my email address on the board. I want you all to email me if you ever have any questions you’re too embarrassed to ask in class. I will go over the answers the next time we meet, because if someone has a question then chances are other people are wondering the same, but I will keep it one-hundred-percent anonymous. I promise.” He quickly scribbles his email on the board, then picks up the folder. “Now, who’s ready for a pop quiz?”

The chorus of groans is almost deafening.

“I’m just joking!” he laughs, grinning even wider at the look of pure relief on their faces. “This paper has a few true or false questions. It won’t be graded, it’s just to gauge how much you may already know so I know what to focus on.” He weaves his way through the aisles of desks, finally returning to his own once everyone had a sheet. “Once you’re done, you can drop them in a pile right here—” he smacks an empty space to his left, “—and grab one of these bad boys. It’s the syllabus for our time together. It has all my contact information and the marking system. Once everyone’s done, the rest of the time is yours for questions.”

Bobby’s finally getting his “real teacher” experience, and it’s a lot less stressful than he thought it’d be. Sure, he normally didn’t assign homework or term papers, but he had to supervise a bunch of teenagers in a kitchen and around dangerous chemicals. Most of his brain power went to making sure they didn’t mix the wrong things and pass out in the middle of his classroom. Compared to that, handing out some papers and a syllabus and bracing for an inevitable dick joke is easy. It’s almost _fun_ , even though he’s only twenty minutes in.

Well, okay.

It _had_ been fun until it came time for questions, and the first one he received was:

“Is pee stored in the balls?”

*******

The weekend is a welcomed reprieve.

Teenagers are exhausting, as Bobby is finally learning. They used to be fun, with sponges for brains that he could cram full of culinary knowledge. He used to love checking his e-mail and answering a panicked message about what to do in case of a grease fire or a custard that’s turned to something resembling butternut squash soup. But now, as he’s been forced into the role of Official Birds and Bees Educator, he’s struggling to keep up. There’s so much to teach them, so much he has to cut out, that the thought of these kids becoming maladjusted adults in unhealthy relationships keeps him awake at night into the early hours of the morning. Even Marzipan is conked out by then, so he’s all alone in his cramped flat with his cramped brain that tells him over and over he’s a lousy teacher.

To cheer himself up, he let his home ec kids spend Friday making donuts. Any kind they wanted—donut holes, donuts with jam or Nutella inside, donuts topped with melted chocolate and enough sprinkles to give him a cavity or just rolled in sugar. An entire day spent eating donuts—he figured there was no way it’d fail to make him feel better.

Except it did. By the time lunch rolled around, all he’d gotten was a stomachache and an incurable urge to take a nap.

“You look terrible,” had been the first words out of Noah’s mouth. All Rahim could offer was a sympathetic nod.

Bobby glared. “Aye, well, I’ve eaten about 75 donuts since I came in this morning.”

Neither Rahim nor Noah questioned it. They didn’t even share a glance at one another.

“I knew you looked bloated,” Rahim said.

At the same time, Noah said, “Oh, tough gig you’ve got there. I’m lucky if I can sneak in a protein bar or even take a fuckin’ piss.”

Bobby had just scowled. “I’m gonna tell Hannah you’re a massive prick,” he joked. Although maybe a part of him hadn’t been joking in the moment. He could easily ask MC to pass along the message.

Even though Noah’s face had flushed at the mention of Hannah’s name, he regained his composure just in time to invite Bobby on a double date later that evening. They’d be grabbing a late dinner and some drinks, and Hannah had suggested bringing along a friend or two. You know, the type of thing you do once you’re starting to get serious about someone. You have to vet their friends and all that.

“Thanks for the invite, but I’d rather not be the third wheel to your boring as fuck conversations about Charles Dickens. It’s nearly the holidays and I’m not in the mood to have deep discourse about the ghosts of Christmas past.”

Rahim snorted, just nearly resisting the urge to make a joke about Noah wanting something else deep, while Noah thoroughly did not enjoy being the butt of the joke this time around. He’d become a pro at dishing it but not being able to take it.

So that’s the story on how all three of them wound up crammed in a booth at some swanky restaurant Noah had chosen solely to impress Hannah. Once they arrived and got settled, he’d taken one look at the prices on the menu and his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.

“Think I’ll be sticking to appetizers and drinks, lads.”

Rahim snorted. “You should be made to pay for ours, too, since this was your idea,” he retorts, looking incredulous. “Fifteen pounds for an amaretto sour?”

“Just drink one,” Bobby replies, trying to give genuine advice, “and drink slowly. Not as financially crippling that way.”

“Fuck that, bro. If I have to be the fifth wheel—”

Noah rolls his eyes. “You’re _not_ the fifth wheel.”

“Then what am I?” Rahim retorts, pursing his lips. “I was already dragged here against my will so I’m going to have fun. That means many drinks, not just one.”

“Fair,” Bobby shrugs. “What’s the cheapest drink on the menu? I might do the same.”

Now, the good thing about taking on an additional class was that it’d turned his brain to mush. He didn’t have time to think of anything except his daily routines, both at home and at school, and occasionally which place he wanted takeaway from. It was all he could do to survive the day. Naturally, this left him very little time to think about MC and his hopeless crush on her. They hadn’t talked much, but she still texted him during the evenings to check in and see how he was faring. He usually fell asleep on the couch or in his clothes waiting for a reply to some weird anatomy question.

A week’s worth of pining hits Bobby all at once as he watches her and Hannah approach the table. There’s a backlog of thoughts ricocheting off the corners of his brain like a game of pinball. He can’t take his eyes off of her. Even as Noah stands to give Hannah a hug and pull out her chair, Bobby’s arse is cemented to the booth. He doesn’t even flinch when Rahim elbows him in the ribs. He doesn’t flinch when he does it a second time, either.

“Bro,” he hisses at him, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Bobby finally pulls his eyes away from her, turning to Rahim with a dazed expression. “Huh?”

“What do you mean ‘huh’? Get your girl.”

He all but pushes Bobby out of the booth, sending him staggering into the aisle. No one notices but the two of them. He greets Hannah first, a warm hug and a quick _it’s so nice to see you again!_ —something he saw Chelsea do a hundred times at parties. It always worked like a charm. God bless that girl and her workshops, because Hannah’s absolutely beaming when he pulls away. MC absolutely knows he’s schmoozing and gives him a look, but hugs him nonetheless. She also beams when he pulls her chair out for her. Even Bobby has a trick up his sleeve every now and then, and no one’s immune.

After they all order food and drinks, Hannah spends the next hour talking incredibly in-depth about the novel she’s writing. Noah’s the only one listening, which is to be expected, while the other three quickly down their drinks and order a second round. Rahim and MC somehow get into an argument over why England lost the World Cup the year before, and by the time Hannah and Noah join the conversation, they’re full-on yelling at one another.

“You don’t get it,” Rahim says condescendingly, “I’m an _athlete_ , so—”

MC scoffs. “I don’t care if you’re Harry fuckin’ Kane himself, mate—”

Noah coughs. “Get it out of your systems?” he asks once the table quiets down.

MC begins to say _yes_ behind gritted teeth, but Rahim keeps going. “That’s my point, Magdalena. It doesn’t matter if you have the highest scorer in the tournament if you don’t have a bloody midfield—”

“What you have means jack shit if the coach never changes the system!” MC argues back, palms planted flat on the table. She looks ready to jump across it and strangle him. “You can’t play an entire tournament using a 3-5-2! Southgate was a complete numpty.”

Rahim looks bamboozled. “Then why’d it work?”

“You’re not actually arguing that Tunisia and Panama are on the same level as Croatia? For an _athlete_ , you’re quite—”

“Okay!” Bobby interjects, clapping his hands together. “I think I’ve officially been put off football talk for the rest of the year.”

Hannah looks confused. “That argument was about football?”

“Right, I’m not listening to this—” Rahim begins to say, just nearly admitting defeat, but when Bobby follows his gaze, he sees a woman stood at the bar that seems to have captured the golfer’s attention.

The rest of the table turns to look, too. She’s cute, Bobby thinks. Not very tall but the height of her mop of red curls adds an inch or two. None of them can hear what she’s saying to the bartender, but she’s oozing confidence.

Or maybe it’s the leather jacket she’s wearing. Who can really say?

“Bro,” is all Rahim says.

They watch her receive two cocktails from the bartender. She whips out a wad of cash and places a few notes on the bar as a tip before making her way towards their table. Bobby can feel Rahim’s heartbeat from where he’s sitting. No more is the overconfident former athlete; now he’s just a bundle of nervous energy. Bobby thinks his insides must look like one of those plasma globes he had as a kid.

“Is it just me or is she coming over here?” Noah asks, his voice a pitch above a whisper.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Rahim chants.

The woman arrives at their table a second later, still oozing confidence and wearing a dazzling smile. She’s close enough to Bobby that he can see a smattering of freckles across her nose.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she starts. Bobby immediately smiles at her accent. It’s nice to not be the only outsider for once. “I couldn’t help but overhear your argument. I thought I’d buy a drink for the winner.”

Rahim’s chest puffs out and he smiles at MC sarcastically. The volume of everyone’s laughter when she sets it in front of MC cannot be overstated. Bobby, MC, and Noah are absolutely beside themselves with laughter. Hannah’s still confused and slightly annoyed that they argued over football instead of hearing about her novel. Rahim tries to sink into the booth but doesn’t make it very far, his tall frame preventing him from escaping.

“Thank you so much, love,” MC says, accepting the drink with a giggle. She smiles at Rahim over the rim of the glass. “Get fucked, mate.”

“Fuck off,” he retorts.

All of Bobby’s energy is going into staying composed. There’s so much pressure in his head from trying not to laugh that he thinks his eyeballs might pop out. Still, he stands from the booth and offers his hand to the woman. “I’m Bobby,” he says. “I’d ask if you’d like to join us, but I think you’re obligated to after that one.”

Rahim looks mortified as she agrees. She takes the empty chair next to MC’s left, directly across from Bobby. “Thanks for the offer,” she says. “It’s very nice to meet you all. I’m Shannon.”

There’s a chorus of _Hi, Shannon!_ from everyone except Rahim, who’s still sulking. Hannah and Noah look pleased as punch there’s another body in the mix, mostly because she’d been the only one able to break up the argument. Bobby isn’t sure how serious it’d actually been—mostly pride, if he had to guess, mixed with a bit of Rahim’s know-it-all attitude when it comes to sports. He’d made a mistake in underestimating MC. Bobby’s positive he won’t do it again.

They all bullshit for a bit in between bites of food and second or third rounds of drinks. Shannon fits in seamlessly, as if she’s known them for years. She talks about her life back in Dublin and scandalizes Hannah by detailing all her favorite true crime podcasts, who’s not at all keen to hear the gory details.

“Dublin?” Noah finally asks. “What’re you doing here, then?”

“Oh,” she replies, swallowing a sip of her beer, “I’m here for work.”

“What do you do?” Hannah asks.

“I’m a professional poker player.”

Once again, the table is abuzz with excitement, asking question after question about what that’s like. How’d you get into that? What’s the most money you’ve ever won? Have you been to Las Vegas? Does that mean you can tell when we’re lying?

Finally, Rahim sputters his drink and points at her. It’s as if all his brain cells have come together at once. “I knew you looked familiar!”

“Oh?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

“I’ve seen you on the telly! Late at night when nothing else is on and they’re showing re-runs of all those poker tournaments.”

Hannah’s eyes are sparkling. “Ohmigod, you’ve been on the telly?”

Shannon shrugs. “That could be true. I don’t ever watch them, personally.”

After Bobby’s fourth drink, he has to excuse himself to the loo. He’s still feeling pretty solid, unlike all the times before at Priya’s. Rahim bursts into the restroom shortly after, still vibrating with nervous energy. Bobby’s seen this before—back at the Halloween party, when he’d been staring through the window at Noah and Hannah in the back garden. Noah had the same look on his face then.

“You don’t even have to say it, pal.”

Rahim whimpers, leaning against the sink. He cups his hands and fills them with cold water, splashing it over his face a moment later. “Mate—”

“You’re fucked,” Bobby finishes for him. “Don’t bother denying it—I can see it all over your face.”

“She’s a _poker player_.”

Bobby doesn’t catch on. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh, it means she’s probably mean as hell and will absolutely know when I’m lying.”

“Why would you lie?”

“Okay, maybe not _lie_ , but she’ll know if I’m keeping something from her. That’s their whole shtick, right? Poker players?”

“Don’t know,” Bobby says. He zips his fly and joins Rahim at the sink. “I’ve never dated a poker player before.”

“Would you?”

Bobby shrugs, squirting a large dollop of soap into his hands. “I guess? I don’t think I’d think this much about it. It’s just a job.”

“Easy for you to say! Your girlfriend’s a teacher.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bobby replies, hoping Rahim can’t see how hard he’s blushing. “Besides, why do you have to date her? Why can’t it be casual?”

Rahim groans. “I just got out of _casual_ and I don’t think I liked it.”

“More of a relationship guy, eh? I can relate.” When that fails to relieve the absolutely panicked look on his friend’s face, Bobby sighs and puts on his serious tone. “Look, just get to know her. Maybe she doesn’t even like you.”

“What the fuck, bro? Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

Bobby shoots him a pointed look as he crumples up a wad of paper towels. “I’m just saying, pal. You literally met her ten minutes ago.”

“She bought MC a drink for arguing with me. She’s fucking with me.”

“ _Or_ she could be trying to get with MC. Ever think of that?”

Rahim is stunned into silence. The pair make their way back to the group, pretending to talk about something else entirely as not to be suspicious. They’re fake laughing over a made-up story from their uni days when they make it back to the table, only half-surprised to see Noah sat there alone. There’s another round of drinks in the middle, but Bobby can’t remember what number they’re on.

“Alright, Billy no mates?” Rahim asks, sliding into his spot next to the wall.

“Very funny,” Noah retorts. “The girls have gone to the loo.”

“Uh-oh,” Bobby and Rahim say in unison.

Bobby quickly downs half of the drink in front of him. He’s not sure what it is. Something sickly-sweet and topped with a cherry, but it doesn’t burn on the way down. “They’re in there plotting for sure.”

“Bruv, do you think I should make a move?” Rahim asks Noah. “Shannon’s fit, but Bobby said she might be after MC.”

Noah snorts. “Why did you tell him that?” he asks Bobby. “Now they’ll be married with kids and he’ll still be wondering if it’s just a long con to get MC.”

“Is Mags into girls?” Rahim asks, suddenly deadly serious. “It could happen. It _would_ happen to me.”

Bobby’s nearly in tears, clutching his stomach as he and Noah keep setting one another off with just a look. “Pal, I have—” he starts to say, but Noah shrieks with laughter which sets him off again. “I have… no idea,” he wheezes out.

The golfer is not amused. “Well, can you ask her out or something? I need to get her out of the way.”

This sets them off again. By the time the girls return to the table, both Bobby and Noah are full-on crying, tears streaming down their cheeks as Rahim pouts. Bobby can’t tell if he’s just a little drunk, but Rahim genuinely believing his harebrained theory might be his proudest accomplishment.

Maybe he is a little drunk, because he’s just now noticing the way MC’s dress hugs her curves; the way a few stray strands of hair frame her cheekbones; the blood-red lipstick she must’ve just reapplied. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone so badly in his life. The urge sits in the pit of his stomach, not far from his dick, reigniting every time Bobby’s just managed to stomp it out. Her cupid’s bow calls to him like a siren song, silently begging him to throw caution to the wind and take what he wants from her.

_This is really fucking bad_ , he thinks to himself. At least he isn’t so far gone he can’t admit it. There’s still a part of his brain that’s lucid and able to reel him in. But Christ, he’s truly fucked. He can’t remember feeling this way about anyone before, not even his long-term girlfriends. Which has got to be silly, right? He’s been in love before. This is just a crush that’s spiraled out of control because he’s refused to do anything about it. Pure lust.

Except it isn’t. If Bobby could build his soulmate, they wouldn’t be far off from MC.

His phone vibrates against his thigh, pulling him out of his thoughts. Around him, Shannon and Rahim and Hannah and Noah are engrossed in their own conversations, seemingly unaware of the world around them.

**You ok in there?** MC’s text says.

_Starting to feel it,_ he writes back.

**Do I need to get you an Uber?**

_Depends if you’re coming with me,_ he types out. Then he thinks better of it and deletes it.

_My flat’s not far from here I can walk_

MC clears her throat, earning only Bobby’s attention. She nods towards the entrance and raises her eyebrows. No one would notice if they ducked out, so they toss a few notes on the table. Bobby helps her into her coat and lets her lead the way. If he would’ve bothered to look back, he would’ve seen the thumbs-up Rahim was giving him.

Outside, he tries to gain his bearings, struggling to remember which direction his flat’s in. MC starts walking to the left, but he gently grabs her arm and nods to the right. They’re both in a state, MC the slightly more drunk of the two, and the frigid November air forces them close together. Bobby pretends not to notice when she slips a hand into his back pocket.

_She’s drunk and it doesn’t mean anything_ , he tells himself. Doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her shoulder, though.

“You’re warm,” she comments.

“Five-time World Human Heater Champion right here, lass.”

She snorts. “Yeah? What was the prize?”

Bobby vaguely gestures to himself. “Uh, me? Are you mad?”

“There must not have been much competition, then. Who was the judge?”

“Erm… the Heat Miser.”

MC looks at him incredulously. “ _Who_?”

“The Heat Miser,” Bobby repeats, slower this time. “You’ve never seen that film?”

“What film?”

“It’s some Christmas film from America from, like, the ‘70s. Jingle and Jangle are trying to get Vixen out of the pound—”

“The _reindeer_?”

“Yes,” Bobby answers simply. “But the mayor doesn’t believe they’re elves—”

“Doesn’t believe _who_ are elves?”

“Jingle and Jangle,” Bobby says. “He tells them he’ll let Vixen go if they can prove they’re elves by making it snow in Southtown on Christmas.”

“O- _kay_. So what’s the catch?”

“That’s what I’m trying to get at, but you keep asking questions. Heat Miser is the one who controls Southtown, and he’s a fucking prick, right? He won’t let his brother make it snow in Southtown unless he can control the North Pole for a day.”

MC stops in her tracks. “Wait, this bloke has a brother now?”

“Aye, Snow Miser.”

They start walking again. “What happens after that?”

“The Misers get into a big row and their mum has to step in.”

“And who’s their mum?”

Bobby side-eyes her, wordlessly asking if she’s stupid. “Uh, Mother Nature? The most famous mum of all-time?”

“The Queen is the most famous mum of all-time.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that you said that. ‘Mum’ is _literally_ in her name. The _actual_ most famous mum of all-time, Mother Nature, forces her sons to compromise. It snows in Southtown and everyone lives happily ever after.”

“And Bingle and Bangle get their reindeer back?”

Bobby snorts, not even bothering to correct her. “Yes.”

“What a weird film. Why’d you watch that?”

“Mickey Rooney is in it. He’s Santa.”

“Who—”

Already offended, Bobby holds up a hand. “Don’t finish that question. He was in all the _Night at the Museum_ films and I won’t hear any slander.”

“Ugh,” MC replies, “those shite films with that wanker Ricky Gervais?” Before Bobby can argue further, MC stops in her tracks. “Wait, where’s your flat?”

Bobby looks around, almost panicked at the unfamiliar buildings until he recognizes one. “Uh, about a block off. We must’ve walked right—wait, are you coming to mine?”

MC shrugs. “If you don’t mind. I think these heels have given me a blister and I didn’t order any fucking food at that place because it was too expensive.”

They set off in the right direction this time, the pair of them knocking shoulders every now and then. “Ah, I see. Just using me for my cooking, is that it?”

“ _No._ I was going to pay for a pizza delivery. I’m using you for your cat. I miss him.”

Bobby barks out a laugh that echoes in the still of the night. “He doesn’t remember you.” MC gasps and whacks him on the arm. “It’s true! I asked him before I left. I said, ‘Mars, do you remember that fit lass that came here a few weeks ago to teach me about cocks? I’m going to see her tonight.’ And he—"

MC stops walking again, standing right under a streetlight. Bobby’s breath hitches in his throat as he turns to look at her. She’s stunning. There’s no other way to describe her. He knows then, in that moment, that he’s going to fall in love with her if he’s not careful. If he doesn’t nip this in the bud right now there’ll be no going back for him.

“You told your cat I’m fit?”

He hadn’t realized he’d said it. And he must look like a deer in headlights because MC immediately starts giggling. The tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks are pink from the cold, and Bobby has had this same thought a million times before, but all he wants to do is kiss her.

“Uh—” Bobby starts, unable to find the words. “Uh, I—”

MC cocks her head to the side and smirks. “Well? What’d he say? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

_She’s toying with me_ , Bobby thinks to himself. _This is a game to her._ “He said he’s never heard of you.”

“Hm,” she replies, clicking her tongue, “that’s a shame.”

She slips her hand into the back pocket of Bobby’s jeans again and doesn’t say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always, please let me know your thoughts/comments/concerns. :)
> 
> How's everyone feeling about S3 of the game? My poor MC is stuck in a friendship couple with Bill until the hot tattooed guy shows up, but he's growing on me! Also, I'm going to need someone to write the slow burn, angsty Seb fic where he doesn't find love in the Villa and realizes on the outside that MC has been there the whole time, because I am regretfully in love with him.


	8. pillow talk

Bobby has never suffered under the delusion that his flat is anything _nice_. It’s small and cramped and it definitely isn’t in the best part of town. Sometimes the exposed brick leaves dust on the floor and the lights flicker every so often even though his landlord insists there’s nothing wonky going on with the wiring.

But now, as MC makes herself comfortable on the couch, scrolling through her phone to find someplace still open to order pizza from, his flat feels _suffocating_.

She’d been in his space before, of course, but it’d been business then. Something about the daylight had made it feel formal and safe. Now, he hears his mum’s words in his head: “Bobby, there’s nothing open after midnight except legs and seedy takeaway restaurants.” Suddenly, under the cover of night, MC being in his flat feels a bit overwhelming, like there are expectations and implications.

“What kind of pizza do you like?” MC asks, her words dragging him out of his silent panic.

He swallows so hard he’s sure she hears it, but her eyes stay glued to her screen. “Oh, uh—”

“Are you one of those weirdos who likes pineapple?”

_Yes_. “No.”

“Shame,” MC chides, her tongue clicking in a way that makes Bobby wonder what else she can do with it. “That was clearly a test and you’ve failed.”

“What?”

“Pineapple on pizza is lush and everyone who thinks it’s sacrilege is wrong.”

“But you said—”

MC waves her hand in the air as if to brush him off. “Leading question. Mars does it all the time. It usually it drives me mad, but—”

“My cat?” Bobby asks stupidly, looking down at the mop of black fuzz that’s sat by his feet.

MC finally looks up at him then, her brows knit together in confusion. Things seem to click into place as she follows his gaze and she snorts, trying to stop herself from full-on laughing at him. “Marisol,” she clarifies, “my flatmate. I call her Mars sometimes.”

“Oh,” Bobby replies. He can feel his face growing warm. “I like pineapple on pizza.”

She cocks an eyebrow, studying him for a moment before shrugging, nails clacking away on her screen as she finishes the order. “What’s your address?”

Bobby rattles it off, trying to keep his calm. This feels like an out of body experience, like he’s watching from the sidelines as his life plays out in front of him, powerless to stop it. He can see where it’s heading—nice for a while, inevitable heartbreak—and he wants to reach out and press the pause button, but he can’t. He just takes a few steps backwards until his body presses against the cold plaster of the wall and tries to wait it out.

Alcohol makes him act like this sometimes. Usually he’s flirty and boisterous and horny, with a mouth that apparently likes to tell white lies, but sometimes he gets broody and existential, acting like the world’s out to get him. And then there’s times like the present, where the world feels overwhelming and he struggles just to breathe.

_This is stupid,_ he tells himself. There’s just a woman in his flat that he happens to find very attractive. They’re both slightly drunk and she’s in a tight dress. Nothing questionable is going on, despite what his racing pulse would lead him to believe. Everything is fine.

He forces his feet towards the kitchen, pulling open his refrigerator to stare at his nearly bare shelves. He’d been so busy at school that he hadn’t done his grocery shopping for the week.

“D’you—” he starts to call over his shoulder, but when he straightens up he feels a presence right behind him. “Christ!” he shrieks, a hand immediately moving over his heart. If his pulse had settled any in the last five minutes, it’s surely back to record-breaking numbers now.

“Sorry,” MC says sheepishly. “I figured you heard me.”

Bobby pretends to glare. “You and Marzipan. Put on this earth to give me a heart attack.”

MC scoffs and scratches Marzipan’s chin, who’s sitting on the counter behind her. “D’you hear that, love? Someone’s grumpy and telling lies about us.”

Marzipan just mewls in response.

“Do… do you want a drink?” Bobby asks, his voice dropping dangerously low. Normal volume seems too brash for how close they’re standing.

“Yes, please.”

Bobby swallows around the lump in his throat. He isn’t smart or science-y enough to know how magnets work, but he knows the pull he feels toward MC is magnetic. All he wants to do is touch her—not even in _that_ way, he just wants to feel the warmth of her body heat, be in that orbit.

He fetches two whisky glasses from a cupboard and grabs a bottle from one on the other side of the kitchen. He’s suddenly aware of how much he drinks around her and flushes at the thought, feeling the blush creep all the way down to his toes. But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s whisky. It’s basically woven into his genetic code, for fuck’s sake, and as a science-y person, that’s something she’d appreciate.

As if she’d read his mind, she asks, “Do you feel the same way about whisky as I feel about makowiec?”

Bobby laughs. “That sounds extremely Polish, so I’m going to say yes.”

“Ugh,” she moans, and it’s borderline pornographic. He tries his best to ignore it. “You’re good at baking, so you’ll have to make it sometime. It’s—”

“I’ll make you anything you like, lass,” Bobby says without thinking. The whisky bottle freezes in mid-air as he registers what he said. “But you’ll have to tell me what’s in it,” he adds quickly, almost so hurried it’s nearly intelligible with his accent.

“I’ll have to send you my mum’s recipe. She stole it from my babcia.” She notices Bobby’s blank stare and giggles. “My grandmother.”

“Ah,” he replies, handing over a glass. “I can’t keep up with you crazy kids and your new languages.” He pulls out his phone and clicks straight to his internet browser. “How you spell that dessert thing?”

Her nose scrunches up in disgust. “ _Dessert thing_? I teach you about the most important Polish pastry of all time and you reduce it to _dessert thing_?”

Undeterred, Bobby types ‘most important polish pastry of all time’ into Google and clicks his tongue. “Hm, that’s strange. Google doesn’t even—”

“Google?” she squawks, grabbing for Bobby’s phone with her free hand. “Do _not_ Google a recipe. I guarantee it’ll turn out shit.”

Bobby’s nearly wheezing now, shocked at how easy it was to get her bent out of shape over a dessert. “I don’t—” he chokes out, clutching at his stomach. “I don’t even know how to spell it! Or say it!”

MC crosses her arms over her chest. Except, in that tight dress she’s wearing, all it does is draw more attention to her cleavage. Bobby’s restraint and nonchalance are saintly. “And I’m certainly not telling you now that you’ve insulted it.”

He gives her the best puppy-dog eyes he can muster and pouts. “Please, lass? I’m really sorry.”

The corners of her mouth twitch but she resets them quickly into a straight line, nearly a frown. “No.”

Bobby wants to cross the threshold of his tiny kitchen and trap her against the counter, one arm on each side of her. He wants to lean down and whisper things into her ear that’d make her skin flush. He wants to sit her atop the counter and set a timer, see how long it takes him to get her off before the pizza delivery shows up. But he can’t do any of those things, so he takes a long pull of whisky and swallows it in one go, not bothering to flinch at the way it burns all the way down his throat.

“If I apologize to the gods of Polish pastry, will you tell me?”

MC cocks an eyebrow, deciding to play along. “Who are the gods of Polish pastry, then?”

“You know,” Bobby starts, trying his best to play it smooth even though he’s nearing Pretty Drunk territory, “I knew them once, had to learn them in culinary school, but now I’ve forgotten. Something with a lot of Cs and Ws, though.”

Her laughter sounds like sunshine. “Fair play.” She clacks away on her phone again and, seconds later, Bobby’s phone dings with a notification from her.

She sent him a Google search for _makowiec._ “No,” he says in disbelief, “there’s no way that’s how you spell it.”

“It has your Cs and Ws,” she jokes, watching him with glittering eyes over the rim of her glass.

“It’s spelled like _that_ and you pronounce it how?”

“Mak-ov-yetz.”

Bobby’s eyebrows knit together. “I think you’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not—”

“Looks lush, though,” he continues, desperate to steer this conversation back into normal territory. “Is it an _all the time_ dessert or a _special occasion_ dessert?”

“Depends who’s making it,” she shrugs. “My babcia only makes it for Christmas and Easter, but my mum would make it every day if she could.”

Bobby can’t help but smile. “Tell me more about your family.”

“What d’you wanna know?”

Bobby shrugs, fighting the urge to tell her he’d listen to anything so long as he got to watch her say it—watch the way her eyes lit up, the way the corners of her mouth twitch when she swallows a smile. But he can’t tell her that, so he just says, “Everything.”

Her giggle illuminates the flush of her cheeks. It seems to grow a deeper pink the more whisky she consumes. “Well,” she starts, “my parents celebrated their 30th anniversary a few months ago, somehow I’m an only child considering they don’t believe in birth control, and I have almost forty cousins.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“None of them,” she smirks. “Nah, I’m joking. Deffo Hannah. She’s the only one who lives here and we’re close in age, so we’ve always been close.”

Bobby’s eyes widen. “You have thirty-plus cousins just in Poland?”

“They’re all over,” she explains. “Most are in Poland, yeah. Some in America, Australia…”

“That’s mint. Have you ever gone to visit them?”

“Never been to Oz, but I’ve been to America a few times.”

She watches him with kind eyes, like she’s got all the time in the world for him. As if Bobby’s one of those massive novels Noah’s always reading and she plans on taking her time, reading each word and really letting them sink in. Not speeding through. Not reading so fast the letters register individually but never form words. Not skipping down the page to see if something more interesting happens in the future. She’s just here in this moment with him, right now.

“How about you, then?” she asks, nudging his shin with her foot.

“I’ve certainly not got forty cousins,” he jokes. “Only five.”

Her jaw drops. “Only five? Are your family reunions dead silent?”

“Silent? Have you ever been to a Jamaican reunion?”

MC rolls her eyes. “Oh, ‘course. As you can see, I’ve got loads of Jamaican heritage. I’ve just been using Polish words to throw you off.”

“Changed your name, too?”

“Code name,” she winks. “D’you have any siblings?”

Bobby nods. “A sister.” She strokes her chin playfully, pretending to study him. “What?” he laughs. “Doing some sort of psychological science experiment on me?”

“Trying to work out if you’re older or younger.” She pauses for a moment. “Definitely younger.”

Bobby laughs. “You think?”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Aye, you’re right. I’m the baby.”

“How much younger?”

“Three years.”

“Are yous close?”

Bobby nods, wringing his hands together. “We weren’t really at first. I’m… kind of a lot, you know? She’s much more mellow than me so I think I just annoyed the piss out of her all the time.” He takes a deep breath, trying to decide what he wants to say. “Our parents split when I was eleven and we both took it really poorly. We became a lot closer after that.”

MC’s eyebrows knit together as she frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he replies. “There was good with the bad. I’m honestly not sure if I would’ve gotten so close to my mum and sister if it hadn’t happened.”

“That’s sweet. I’m quite close with my mum, too. Me and my dad get on alright, but we’re quite different so it’s tense sometimes.”

Bobby moves around the kitchen, grabbing the whisky again to refill their glasses. “How do you mean?”

“He’s, uh… _traditional_? I guess that’s the best way to put it. I know he loves me and he’s supportive in his own way, but I think he expected me to be like my mum, just stay at home and raise a family.”

“Did you always know that wasn’t for you?”

She shrugs, taking a small sip of her drink. “I always knew I loved science. When I was little, my mum used to set up these little chemistry experiments for me at the kitchen table. Like, this one time we did one to make moldy bread and I left them all over the house. My dad found ‘em and went mental.” She frowns. “There’d just always been these little comments, you know? Like, he was glad I’d found something I enjoyed, but why was I entering that science competition?”

“Did you always want to be a teacher?”

A small, almost bitter laugh escapes her. “No. I wanted to work in a lab, be a proper scientist. Maybe I’d find the cure for cancer! Who knows? But… I applied for this scholarship to study abroad at this fancy uni in America. I knew it was unlikely—how many thousands of people apply for those things, right?—but I got the official rejection letter and I was devastated. I just became so insecure all of a sudden, like maybe I wasn’t as smart or capable as I’d thought.” She sighs, staring down at the dingy tile of Bobby’s kitchen floor. “My mum was trying so hard to cheer me up, bless her. Baked me a cake and everythin’. And my dad came in from work and was like, ‘Now you can come down from the clouds and get that silly idea out of your head.’”

“Fuck,” Bobby says, not at all enjoying how tight his chest has become. “That’s so shit. You didn’t deserve that.”

She shrugs, still not meeting his eye. “S’why I became a teacher. Just in case there’s another little girl out there who wants to grow up and become a scientist and change the world but hasn’t got any support. I want them to know I’m in their corner.”

Bobby wraps her in his arms before he can overthink it. He wants to tell her how amazing he thinks she is, how smart and kind and great at her job, but the words get too jumbled from all he’s had to drink so he just holds her and hopes it’s enough.

They pull apart as someone begins knocking on the door, an identical pair of relieved grins spreading across their faces at the thought of greasy, artery-clogging pizza. A deliveryman hands over two boxes in exchange for his tip, and Bobby whips around to give MC a questioning glance.

“Two?”

She shrugs. “I’m hungry.”

He laughs and matches her shrug. “Fair. Go relax on the couch, love. I’ll grab plates.”

He grabs napkins and plates and sets them on top of the pizza boxes, juggling the bottle of whisky in the crook of his arm for good measure. He sets everything on the coffee table and goes back to the kitchen for a couple glasses of water. When he joins MC on the couch, she’s already digging into one of the pies, staring up at Bobby with a sheepish look.

“Sorry.”

“Food is my life, lass,” he says, laughing. “Don’t ever apologize for enjoying it. What’d you get, then?”

“One is my go-to combination, pineapple and jalapeno, and the other is half-cheese and half-pepperoni.”

“Pineapple and jalapeno? Okay, consider me intrigued.”

They eat mostly in silence, breaking it every now and then to moan about how great the pizza is. Bobby’s pleasantly surprised by MC’s pizza combination and tells her so, making a mental note to order it again sometime. It’s comfortable, Bobby thinks. Every time they’re together is comfortable. He doesn’t feel obligated to fill any silence; he doesn’t feel obligated to act overly jokey like everyone else expects him to.

“Can I tell you something a bit embarrassing?” he asks, setting his empty plate on the table in front of him. MC nods, her mouth full of pizza, and angles herself towards him. “I got into baking when I was young because I was really into magic.”

“Magic? Like David Blaine?”

Bobby scoffs. “Well, obviously I’m better looking than him—” MC shrieks with laughter and elbows him in the ribs. “But… yeah, a bit. I’d found this really old recipe book that was basically all these silly magic tricks you could do with baking. I just remember thinking, like, if I could do magic with baking, maybe I could do it with other things, you know? Like, maybe I could wave a magic wand and my parents wouldn’t be divorced, or I could use magic to make my mum or my sister stop crying.”

MC’s eyes soften. “How’s your relationship with your dad?”

“Um,” Bobby hesitates, “not great, really. We’re civil.”

“Can I ask something a bit personal?”

Bobby laughs. “I think we’re beyond you needing to ask that.”

“Shut up,” she jokes. “But, like… was the divorce—”

“My dad’s fault?” Bobby finishes for her. MC nods. “It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, it just stopped working. Like what Chels said about Hope and Noah, that it hurts a lot more when it’s no one’s fault and it’s just… over. But he was just… _different_ after. Really distant and unavailable.”

“Yeah,” MC nods, quieter than before, “I know what it’s like to have a dad like that.”

“It was just… I felt responsible for fixing things and making sure they were both okay and the weight of that responsibility was overwhelming, you know? I was only eleven. So by the time I got to be a teenager, I was a bit of a mess.”

MC’s eyes widen. “Were you really? I can’t see you being some angsty teenager.”

“I was in a bleedin’ punk band!”

She gasps comically loud. “You weren’t!”

“I was,” Bobby laughs, relishing in the way his cheeks warm. “I was the singer. I’ll have to show you our stuff sometime. I grew up playing piano.”

“I’d be honored,” she smiles. “Did you have the eyeliner and spiky hair and everything?”

Bobby’s blush deepens. “Fuck, now you’re really gonna put me on the spot. But yeah, I did. I’m still pretty good at the flicky cat-eye one, I’ve not lost it.”

“You’ll have to do my makeup sometime.”

“Okay,” he replies, suddenly painfully shy. “I’d love to.”

For a moment, he forgets where they are, that they’re merely sat on his couch in his unimpressive flat just past midnight on some random night in November. The moment feels bigger, somehow. He’s trudging through his mind, trying to remember the last time he’d told someone just how much his parents’ divorce affected him. Probably his ex. God, and he’s also just told her about his silly magic tricks and his rebellious phase.

He’s not ashamed of these parts of himself. They’re the bits and bobs of his entire story, the starting points of so many things he’s come to accept about himself. The divorce turned him into a bit of a people-pleaser, the person who couldn’t bear to see anyone upset. But it also taught him responsibility and made him sensitive and soft around the edges. And the magic, as silly as it felt sometimes, led him to baking and cooking and everything in his adult life.

It led him here, to this exact moment, so that definitely counts for something.

Bobby’s in the middle of cleaning up and putting away leftovers when a thought hits him. He mutters a few swear words to himself and turns to face MC, who’s still sat on the couch, nearly dozing off. She’s still all done up in her dress and makeup, her hair piled atop her head in a messy bun now, and Bobby figures her feet must be screaming in pain by now. He’d never told her to make herself comfortable and take her heels off. Should he have? Is that a thing people do, or do guests usually just take them off without being prompted?

“Hey,” he says quietly, gently shaking her shoulder. She peers up at him with hazy eyes and hums an acknowledgment. “Do you—” he pauses, deciding to throw caution to the wind and make an executive decision. “You look exhausted, lass. Why don’t you take my bed?”

She sits up straight and wipes her eyes. “No, I’ll sleep out here. It’s your bed.”

Bobby laughs, already hearing his mum screeching from a country over. “No, no way. Mum would kill me.”

“Bobby—”

“I’m not havin’ it, lass,” he says, trying to look stern and authoritative but he cracks and starts laughing again.

“Fine,” she relents. “Lead the way.”

He pads down the hallway to his bedroom door, blinding sticking an arm in and feeling for the light switch. Silently, he sends a heartfelt thanks to his past-self for having the mind to make his bed and tidy up. Even the sheets are recently washed. He’s invincible.

As she sits at the foot of the bed and takes off her shoes, Bobby rifles through his drawers for something suitable for her to sleep in. He’s less certain of the freshness of his laundry and tries to subtly sniff all his shirts. Christ, he’s truly lost it.

“Here,” he says, handing over an old band t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers. “They’ll be a bit big on you, but…”

She smiles. “Thank you.” She stands, now much shorter without her heels, and turns around. “Would you mind unzipping me?”

Forget magnets. Bobby suddenly doesn’t know how _anything_ works—not magnets, not zippers, and certainly not his fingers. Just that simple question has sent his stomach plummeting to the floor and fried his nerves. God forbid she ever asked him for help adjusting her bra straps; he’d go straight into cardiac arrest.

“Oh, uh—a-aye, sure.” His hands tremble slightly as he drags the zipper down. He moves as slowly as possible, almost feeling a pang of disappointment once he reaches the end. “There you go, love. Do you—d’you want me to leave a towel or a face cloth in the bathroom?”

“I think I’m too knackered for a shower, but a face cloth would be great. Don’t want to ruin your pillowcases with this makeup.”

He nods, thankful for something to do. Once again, the room had felt suffocating—all the pent-up emotions and implications and unspoken feelings. Bobby has never been one to drag things out. Once he’s got his mind made up, he’s usually pretty quick to act, for better or worse. But things are different now. He’s not that impulsive and brash young adult he once was. He’s at least an adult in the sense that he likes having a salary and his own flat and Marzipan, and _not_ having a job would put all that in jeopardy. And there’s no telling what could happen.

So, is it better to play it safe or go with his heart?

After setting a face cloth on the bathroom counter (along with an extra toothbrush—his mum had taught him well), he rifles through the linen closet in the hall for a blanket. He’s mentally planned out his entire night on the couch, going so far as having decided which reruns he’s going to watch. He sees himself sat there, drowned in the blue light of the television, overthinking until the early hours of the morning as he always does. Maybe he’ll make breakfast in the morning, or maybe he’ll sleep in and wake up with Marzipan curled into his side and a cramp in his neck.

Once Bobby gets his temporary bed made up for the night, he pads back down the hallway toward the bathroom to brush his teeth. He’s just got the brush stuck in his mouth when MC sidles up next to him, causing him to choke.

There’s something about seeing her in his clothes—how many times she’s had to roll his boxers at the top so they don’t fall down her hips, how boxy his t-shirt drapes over her frame—that just feels _primal_.

A whimper is dangerously close to escaping him. He shoves his toothbrush further into his mouth, trying not to look at her in the reflection of the mirror, but it’s impossible to escape her presence. So he starts brushing harder. And when his gums begin to get sore, he closes his eyes and doesn’t watch her gently take her makeup off. He doesn’t watch the way her tongue pokes out as she concentrates or her quiet snort as her lipstick rubs off around the outline of her lips, making her look like a clown.

He doesn’t watch anything, because this all feels too relationship-y and he’s going to leave this bathroom and sleep alone on the couch.

And then he panics, because he has to spit out his toothpaste and it feels rude to do it in front of her. He holds it in his mouth like a chipmunk and contemplates going to spit in the kitchen sink.

MC hip-bumps him. “Just spit it out, Bobs.”

His cheeks burn. Of course; she doesn’t miss a fucking thing.

After he rinses his mouth, he heads to the bedroom to fluff the pillows and pull back the duvet. He draws the curtains so the sun won’t wake her too early and sets out his phone charger. There’s a nagging thought in the back of his mind that he’d never expend so much effort if it was Noah spending the night—but then again, he’d never give up his bed for Noah, either.

“Sorry I haven’t got a TV in here,” Bobby says as MC walks in. He’s still struck at the sight of her in his clothes. “I can lend you my laptop if you want to watch Netflix or something.”

She snorts. “And go through your browser history? I _really_ don’t want to know what kind of porn you watch.”

Bobby turns crimson again. “You’d only know that if you went searching.”

“You’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like that.”

“Next time I’m over at yours I’ll just return the favor.”

She climbs into bed and smirks. “Joke’s on you, it’s all One Direction fanfiction.”

Bobby throws his head back as he laughs. “Oi! I’ve seen some of that and it’s pure filth.”

“You’ve _seen_ it?”

“I do have a sister, you know,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. “I’m in the know on these things.”

MC pouts, waving her hands in front of her eyes as she pretends to cry. “I just miss Zayn so much.”

“Aye, he seems to be getting on just fine. He’s got millions of pounds and a supermodel missus.” He sighs, finally feeling the exhaustion catch up to him. “Are you all right, though? Can I get you anything?”

“This is perfect, Bobby,” she smiles. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” he resigns. “If you need anything, just shout.”

He flicks the light off, preparing to leave the door cracked and head to the couch.

“Wait, where are you going?” she asks.

“The couch,” he answers. “Not the first night I’ve spent on a couch while a fit lass stays in my bed.” _What?_ Why would he say that? “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” he says quickly.

“Oh,” MC answers. A few agonizing moments go by before she finally says, “I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable if you stayed.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Maybe in different circumstances he’d hesitate in stripping down to his boxers, maybe act a bit more prudish and change into some pajama pants in the bathroom. Maybe he also would’ve built a pillow wall between them. Maybe he also would’ve slept on his usual side of the bed but doesn’t this time, deciding to cling to the hope that it smells enough like him she takes notice.

They’re facing one another in the dark. Bobby’s thankful he’s able to hide his smile, but he can’t hide the butterflies in his stomach.

“Do you snore?” he asks.

“Horribly loud.”

Bobby props himself up on one elbow. “Are you joking?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

They’re quiet for a while, adjusting to being so close. It feels… easy, Bobby thinks. There’s no pressure and no expectations. He thought doing this as friends might’ve been weird. Even Marzipan finds a comfy spot and curls up, content to sleep in between them without a care in the world as to why there’s suddenly another body taking up room in his bed. Like Bobby, he’s just happy to have her there. What they are—or aren’t—doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the sound of her steady breathing and the fact that she’s truly right there next to him.

“Is your full name Robert?” she asks out of nowhere, surprising Bobby enough that he snorts. Marzipan jolts awake at the sound, and neither of them have to look to know he’s glaring.

“Your idea of pillow talk is horrible.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Wait until you hear my mattress chat.”

“Aye, I can’t wait,” he jokes. “All I’ve ever needed in my life has been deep, meaningful debate on a double versus a king.”

Later on, when MC is asleep and he’s left alone with his thoughts, he imagines her using a bold line like _“I need something else deep”_ as she strokes him through his underwear. He squirms, attempting to readjust himself without actually having to, and pictures her rolling on top of him and having her way. At least in these dreams he’s able to kiss her.

For now, he just says, “It isn’t, by the way—Robert. My full name’s just Bobby.”

“Really?” She sounds surprised. “Can I call you Robert anyway?”

Bobby’s full on grinning now, warmth flooding his insides at the thought of having a thing that’s only theirs. “Only if I get a special name for you.”

“Okay,” she agrees, so quiet Bobby wonders if she’s talking in her sleep.

“What does everyone already call you?”

“Mostly Mags,” she answers. “Only my mum calls me by my full name.”

“Does anyone call you Maggie?”

Her face scrunches up. “Like that awful Rod Stewart song?”

Bobby laughs. “So that’s a no on waking you up singing it?”

_Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you. I’ve got a desperate crush on you that’s only getting worse. You’re the only thing I can think about. I’m nearly love-sick._

Nah, hasn’t got the same ring to it.

“Only if there’s breakfast.”

If there’s anything Bobby can handle, it’s breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! As always, thank you so much for reading! I'm eager to hear your thoughts if you've got any. <3
> 
> I wasn't expecting to write 5k words of just Bobby and MC eating pizza together but I'm making it up as I go so who knows what'll happen next~
> 
> I hope you all have a lovely weekend!


	9. rescue mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all, _I know_ it's taken me forever to update this. My brain just... didn't want to write it. I scrapped three chapters before finally finishing this one and it probably sucks, but I didn't want my first update in almost four months to be filler.
> 
> Thank you to Sarah and the rest of the Discord for yelling at me to finally buckle down and write this. I can't promise it'll be updated regularly from here on out but, for now, it's something! (Hopefully!)
> 
> I'm also back on [Tumblr](https://americangrunge.tumblr.com/), so you can follow me/ask me things/yell at me~

There’s a searing pain in Bobby’s big toe.

He ignores it, rolling over to try and salvage what’s left of his slumber. Except he’s not on his usual side of the bed and nearly shoves his face into the back of MC’s head, the scent of her shampoo and the remnants of her perfume and _her_ dizzying him immediately.

He groans. No way he can go back to sleep now.

He looks down at his feet, not at all surprised to find Marzipan staring back at him with narrowed, green eyes. Reaching for his phone, he checks the time and sends a narrowed glare back—he’s not even late for breakfast yet, but he’d gotten bit on the toe anyway.

“That was very rude,” he chastises him, his tone hushed and feather-light. “I don’t bite you, do I?” Marzipan meows loudly. “Shh! We have guests.” Another loud howl. “Where are your manners? I raised you better than this.”

It’s a tale as old as time: the stubborn, unrelenting cat versus the stubborn, naïve owner. Bobby knows he’ll be on the losing end quickly and curses his drunk-self for the millionth time. He could’ve been spared of all of this had he just kept his mouth shut. Could’ve slept longer. Could’ve salvaged a toe.

Could’ve woken up with a hard-on and _not_ have to panic over how to get rid of it quickly.

Bobby sighs, flinging his head back onto the pillow. He can feel Marzipan’s expectant stare without having to look, but he just… “I can’t,” he tries to explain to the ceiling. “This is very inappropriate.”

Marzipan strides the length of the bed, settling next to Bobby’s head. Still staring. Still expecting breakfast.

“I know you’ve been neutered, and I’m _very_ sorry to hear that, so perhaps you don’t understand, but—”

Another loud meow. The absolute nerve of this cat.

MC begins to stir beside him, her soft exhales and mewls as she stretches sounding a lot like the fuzzy bastard sat next to Bobby’s head. Except MC is kind and patient and, unlike Marzipan, wouldn’t bite him.

Unless she _would._

He whimpers. Not the correct train of thought to follow when he’s trying to get rid of an erection.

Marzipan, sensing a more rewarding opportunity, turns his attention to MC. A tiny paw taps her gently on the shoulder and Bobby nearly strangles him. “Seriously?” he hisses. “ _That’s_ what _she_ gets when you fucking _bit me_?”

MC sighs again, wrapping the duvet tighter around her body. Rolling onto her side, one blue eye opens slowly and stares at Bobby. Marzipan still sits proudly in between them and she reaches out to pet him, the traitorous cat nuzzling into her hand immediately as if only to tell Bobby to go fuck himself.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice still thick from sleep.

Bobby tries to smile around his obvious rage. “Mornin’.”

“Oh, sorry, I was talking to him.”

Bobby rolls onto his back, his hands flailing dramatically in the air. “You know he’s _my_ cat, right?”

Marzipan meows at this. Bobby doesn’t need to speak Cat to pick up on the disapproving tone.

“Are you sure? He doesn’t seem very happy at that.” Oh great, so she picks up on it, too.

“ _Yes,_ I’m sure.”

“I’m sure he’s just hungry, then. Did he have breakfast?”

“Are you accusing me of neglecting my son?” Bobby retorts. “My only son? My perfect, adorable, very loved and very _not_ neglected son?” MC stares blankly at him. Even Marzipan turns his attention back to Bobby, ears back as if to tell him he knows exactly what game he’s trying to play. “Fine,” Bobby relents, “but I just woke up! I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet!”

A very pitiful meow comes out of Marzipan and it works like a charm. MC gives him a quick scratch on the head before she’s pushing the duvet off her legs, completely unaware of the way it, once again, steals the air from Bobby’s lungs. Seeing her in his clothes does nothing to help his erection, so he shifts onto his side and cocoons further into the bed to hide it.

“Food’s on top of the fridge,” he says, smirking at the dirty look she gives him.

“How’d I get swindled into feeding _your_ cat?” she laughs. “The hospitality in this bed and breakfast sucks.”

Pushing onto his elbow, Bobby grins. “Are you going to write a strongly worded letter to management?”

“Well, that depends,” she teases.

“On?”

“How good breakfast is.”

Then she disappears down the hallway and Bobby groans again. If he couldn’t even get out of bed to feed his cat, there’s no way he’s going to be able to cook breakfast.

So, as he’s done a million times over the course of his life, he thinks every unsexy thought he can to get rid of his hard-on. But he can still hear MC talking to Marzipan in his kitchen and it’s the sweet, lilting tone she uses with his cat, of all things, that’s making it impossible to do. Makes him wonder if it’s deeper than a silly crush on a coworker, deeper than lust and something temporary.

Bobby knows he’s a tough nut to crack. He knows he’s a bit pickier than he’d like, has written off probably hundreds of possible long-term relationships before they ever had a chance, and he tries not to think too much about it now that he’s in the “looking for something serious” stage in his life. Tries not to get ensnared in the web of regret and what-ifs. After changing careers and moving away from Glasgow, he wants object permanence. He wants to fall in love and give all of himself to someone willing to give him those things in return.

So, yeah, for those reasons there’d be a niggling of doubt in his mind that he was truly serious about MC. Maybe she’d just been the first woman he was interested in and latched onto her, putting the weight of his wants onto her without her knowledge. A silly crush. But after seeing her in his space, in his home and his bed, seeing the way she adores the cat he’d only gotten to impress her, he knows it’s more.

And it terrifies him.

Feelings—especially serious ones that have implications—are always a boner killer, so he clambers out of bed and pads down the hallway. MC is at the sink, refilling Marzipan’s water bowl while he sits at her feet, quiet as a church mouse and perfectly behaved.

“Do you want a cat?” Bobby asks, leaning against the counter. “He definitely likes you more than me.”

A massive pang of disappointment blooms in Bobby’s stomach when she squats to set down the water instead of bending over. “Oh, no,” she laughs. “I’m just new.”

“Nah, he definitely does. He’s gonna be gutted when you go back to yours.”

Blue eyes twinkle at him when she says, “Just gives me an excuse to come back more often, hm?”

He wants to say something cheeky, wants to ask if she’s flirting with him and figure out where her head’s at, but the words seize in his throat before he can speak them. Now that he’s decided this is serious, he feels pinned in place, quiet panic holding onto him for dear life.

So, in his trademark jester way, he grins and says, “I think I promised you breakfast, didn’t I?”

“You most certainly did.”

“Are you okay wearing that?” Bobby asks, wanting to be a good host. “I can give you some joggers? If you want?”

She chews on the inside of her cheek. “That’d be great actually.” A blinding smile. “Thanks.”

Bobby retreats to the calm of his room, trying not to look at his bed and remember the way MC looked in it, tries not to think about how it’d feel seeing her in it every night for the rest of his life. With a sigh, he rifles through a drawer for the joggers and a clean shirt—a smaller one this time—and also has to stop his brain from imagining her in _more_ of his clothes. Or less.

But it’s impossible. Bobby has always tortured himself this way. Seems a bit foolish to stop now.

Halfway down the hall, he pauses outside of the bathroom. “Want to take a shower?” He hears a sharp intake of breath and squeezes his eyes closed, as if to brace himself for a scolding that doesn’t come. “Not with me! Fuck, that’s not—I meant, you know, by yourse— _fuck_.”

When his eyes snap open, she’s standing in front of him with a bemused smile. She doesn’t say anything as she plucks the clothes from his arms and shuts herself in the bathroom. A second later, when he hears the water begin to run, Bobby’s limbs suddenly remember how to work again.

Breakfast is second nature to him. All the (extremely) early mornings at the hospital meant he could cook some eggs and varying accoutrements with his eyes closed, but it’s also meditative—something he’s just _good_ at, without having to question it or second-guess himself.

He’s pouring fresh orange juice into a pair of glasses when a hesitant, embarrassed voice calls out to him. “Uh, Bobby?”

“Aye?” he calls back, searching for a serving spoon.

“I, uh… Could you just come here for a sec?”

He frowns, feet carrying him in the direction of MC’s voice. “Are you all right, lass?”

Muffled words answer from the other side of the bathroom door. “Do you… I—ugh, fuck.”

The tone is familiar, one he’d heard his sister use countless times as a teenager, and realization dawns on his face while he tries to swallow his smile. “Did you get an unexpected surprise?”

MC pauses, probably to wonder if they’re actually on the same page or if she’s going to embarrass herself by unknowingly agreeing to something else entirely. “You said you have a sister, right?”

“I did.” He’s _very_ lucky she can’t see the shit-eating grin on his face.

“So, you know what happened, then?”

“I do.”

“Are you—are you _teasing_ me?”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“I might.”

“ _Bobby_ ,” she laughs, “I’m fucking mortified and you’re _mocking_ me.”

“Is it my turn to teach _you_ anatomy?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He barks out a laugh.

“There are tampons in the cabinet under the sink.”

“There are?” she asks, the shock clear in her voice.

“Oi! Why do you sound so surprised?” he jokes. “I grew up with two women. Of _course_ I keep emergency tampons in the bathroom.” After a beat of silence, Bobby asks, “Are you all right, though? Do you need anything else?”

“A bag to put over my head would be nice.”

“Fresh out of bags,” Bobby replies, “but I can offer you some breakfast in this trying time.”

MC hums. “It’s a deal. Be out in a sec.”

When she joins him at his small table for breakfast, the only evidence of her embarrassment is the rosy tint of her cheeks. But Bobby barely notices, too stuck at the sight of her in his clothes again and the water droplets clinging to the ends of her hair. It’s still curly, even when it’s wet. It’s not something she does to it, and this feels important to know, like a small, irrelevant detail of the _real_ her. Bare. Intimate. She’d felt comfortable enough with Bobby to shower in his shitty flat, to show up to breakfast in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes, wet hair, and a bare face.

Maybe it’s to distract him, maybe it’s because she really wants to know, but she asks him all about life back home in Glasgow. What it’d been like to grow up there, what his mum and sister are like. She asks him about the hospital, delicately because she remembers how hard it’d been the last time they talked about it, and Bobby smiles as he gets to wax poetic about what a character Jonno is. He nearly tells her how much he’d love her but stops himself. Maybe that’ll be a discussion for another day.

As they’re clearing the table, Bobby’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He snorts at the series of panicked texts from Noah.

**Mate you gotta help me**

**Can you PLEASE call me and act like it’s an emergency**

**I’ll owe you one**

The line barely gets through its first ring when Noah picks up. “Bobby?” the librarian greets him in faux-surprise. “What’s up, mate?”

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Oh, aye,” Bobby replies, his voice smooth as butter. “I heard there’s a damsel in distress that needs rescuing. Might that be you?”

“What? When did that happen?” Noah continues, clearly faking a very distressing phone call.

Bobby checks an imaginary wristwatch. “About two minutes ago. Is there a reason you couldn’t do this over text?”

“I’m, uh, not at my place. If you want to pick me up, I could go with you to see her.”

Bobby gasps. “Noah! Am I rescuing you from doing a walk of shame?”

“Sounds good. See you in a few.”

The call disconnects and Bobby manages to keep his laughter in check until he locks eyes with MC. She’s staring at him in horror, connecting the dots of from whom and where Noah needs rescuing. A snort laughter escapes her at first, then she cracks, her face flushing again as tears well in her eyes. Bobby’s laughing too, light to start until he receives another panicked text from Noah with his location.

**Please hurry**

“What do you think?” he asks, slinging an arm over MC’s shoulder. “Would you like to accompany me in rescuing our dearest Noah or d’you want me to drop you at yours on the way?”

She scoffs. “Are you joking? There’s no way I’d miss this.”

So, for the third time in twenty-four hours, Bobby hands over more of his clothing (a pair of socks and some slippers, and a heavier coat than the one MC had been wearing) before he ushers her out of his flat. He barely has time to mourn just how much of a piece of shit his car is before he’s yanking the passenger side door open for her.

There have been a million little moments over the past two months in which Bobby realized just how _easily_ she fits into his life, but this feels different. There’d been no hesitation, just a mutual, silent agreement to rag on Noah endlessly for making them do this.

She doesn’t complain that the heat in Bobby’s car barely works.

She doesn’t complain about him being a terrible driver.

She doesn’t complain when he asks her, for the millionth time, how to get to Hannah’s flat.

Bobby doesn’t complain when she insists on stopping for coffee, either.

Noah can squirm just a little longer.

“So,” Bobby starts, dumping a few sugar packets into his to-go cup, “tell me about Hannah. What dark secrets does she have that’d require us to rescue Noah?”

“Black widow,” MC deadpans. “High body count. Lures in lots of innocent blokes, marries them for their extreme fortunes, and then poisons them.”

He snorts, foregoing the cream and milk. “Does that run in the family?”

MC angles toward him slightly, using her free hand to poke him in the side. “Wanna get married and find out?”

Bobby strokes his chin. “You’re offering me a fifty-fifty chance to either live in domestic, wedded bliss with you for the rest of my life or live in brief wedded bliss with you before you murder me?” The coffee cup at his lips does little to hide the spreading grin on his face. “I’m down. Sign me up.”

As they fold themselves back into the car, Bobby thinks those truly might not be terrible odds.

Hannah’s flat is a good twenty-minute drive. Neither of them bothers to text Noah their ETA, keen to let him keep squirming, and they fill the silence with a back-and-forth that keeps smiles on their faces and laughter bubbling. And, when the silence _does_ creep in, MC turns the stereo system on and nearly falls out of the car laughing.

“The _Titanic_ soundtrack? Really?”

Bobby scoffs. “Are you hating?”

“And if I am?”

“Then I will challenge you to a Celine Dion sing-off.”

She rolls her lips together, fighting off a smile. “And what’s the prize when I win?”

“You’re not going to win,” Bobby quips, “so don’t worry about it.”

They prepare in determined silence: Bobby by clearing his throat and bullshitting his way through vocal warm-ups, and MC by using her phone to look up the lyrics to “My Heart Will Go On.” By go-time, there’s absolutely no hesitation on her end as she belts out the words. Bobby’s heart patters against his ribs as she sings into her phone, her arms gesturing wildly as she gets more into it. Everything about her performance is corny and endearing, and he doesn’t bother to hide how hard he’s smiling.

“Brilliant,” he says as she finishes. “You’re gonna give me a run for my money, but you’re still going to lose.”

“Bullshit!” she laughs. “That was _peak_ Celine and you know it.”

“Lass, this is the only CD I’ve had in my car for ages. I’m well-trained in Celine Dion and _Titanic_ karaoke. I’m unbeatable.”

She rolls her eyes. “Go on, then. Let’s have it.”

Bobby loves this part, loves the shocked silence when people realize he can actually sing. He loves the follow-up of explaining his Paisley Cuddle days, loves the even wider eyes and slacked jaws as they imagine him doing such a thing. He loves explaining just how serious it’d been, how deep he was into it, the fact that he can still put on perfectly smudged eyeliner.

Everything falls perfectly into place.

As soon as he starts singing, MC turns abruptly to face him. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops just a bit, and she just sits back to watch the show. It’s not as extravagant as hers was, seeing as he has to watch the road and all, but Bobby is nothing if not entertaining. As he nails all the vocal runs and improvs the flute notes at the end, she’s been nearly stunned into silence.

When the next song begins to play, Bobby can’t help the smug smile that appears. “Told you I’d win.”

“You didn’t say you could _sing_ -sing.”

Bobby clicks his tongue. “You didn’t ask. Pretty foolish if you ask me.”

“You’re right,” MC concedes. “I definitely should’ve asked about it in between teaching you where girls pee from and winning every other bet we’ve made.”

“Okay, _first_ of all, it was one—”

MC points somewhere to Bobby’s left. “Hannah’s flat is right up here.”

Bobby slows to a stop, pulling his car to the side of the street as best he can. He sends Noah a quick text to let him know he’s arrived, and it’s not five seconds later he sees his friend’s lanky frame tumbling out of a front door, his trainers barely laced.

“Guess someone was in a rush,” MC snorts.

_Disheveled_ is probably the best way to describe his appearance. He’s still in his clothes from the night before, but the stiff creases from the night before have softened and wrinkled. His hair is plastered to one side of his head.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Bobby chimes, hanging halfway out the window to greet him. “You’re looking perfectly sharp and put-together.”

“Fuck off,” Noah snaps, swearing again as the door handle slips out of his grip.

“Oh, whoops.” Bobby presses the button for the automatic locks. “Sorry, mate.” The shit-eating grin on his face says otherwise.

MC, the more diplomatic of the two, turns to Noah with a warm smile as he climbs into the back seat. “Hi, Noah.”

“Hey, Mags—” Noah pauses, his seatbelt hanging limp in his hands. “Wait, why are you here?” His eyes dart between them. “Oh shit. Oh _fuck_. Did you two—”

“No,” Bobby laughs as he maneuvers back into traffic. “Unlike you, I’m guessing?”

Noah whimpers. “Please don’t ask.”

“That bad?”

Noah’s immediately on the defensive. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying it’s a bit rude to discuss something like that in front of her cousin, is all.”

“Oh,” MC laughs, “please don’t stop on my behalf. I think we’re all dying to know.”

This was obviously not the reaction Noah was expecting, and his cheeks burn under the pair’s expectations. “It just… didn’t work out,” he tries.

He splutters as they roll their eyes at him in tandem.

“Jesus, you two together are terrible.”

“Then spill the beans,” Bobby says. “There has to be a reason we’ve been sent on a rescue mission when you could’ve called an Uber.”

Noah frowns. “I… honestly didn’t even think to do that.”

In the rearview mirror, Bobby sends him a wink. “Always nice to know I’m number one in your mind, babe.”

“Shut up,” the English teacher laughs. “It was just… intense.” MC snorts at this, as if she’s in on a secret no one else knows.

“Too many expectations?”

Noah sends a cautious glance to MC before saying, “Not sexually. That part’s fine.”

Bobby can’t help himself as he slams on the brake pedal. “Noah! That was your first date!”

“Not the first time they fucked, though,” MC says under her breath.

Realization dawns on the Scot’s face. “Oh my god, did you two…?” Noah turns bright red. “At the Halloween party? That was you two I walked in on?” He turns to MC. “And you _knew_?”

“Of course I knew,” she scoffs. “Girls tell each other everything. And we’re related.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Honestly, mate,” Noah says, “I figured you remembered walking in on us.” He frowns. “Although, in retrospect, I _did_ think it was weird you never ragged on me about it. Makes sense now.”

“What’s your excuse, then?” he asks MC, a joking smile on his face.

MC whacks him. “Not my place.”

It’s a small comment. Probably not meant to actually _mean_ anything, but it’s heartwarming to Bobby nonetheless. And Noah, too, if the goofy, surprised look on his face is any indication. He’d fully expected all of his business to be tossed into the wind, the way it’d always been between him and the rest of his teacher friends. He’d told Bobby once that all of them knew one another’s business; perhaps there’s a difference between getting coffee and having a quickie in the loo at a party.

“Are you okay, though, Noah?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

MC turns in her seat, giving him a knowing look. “You don’t have to lie just because I’m here.”

“I’m not,” he promptly lies.

“Okay.”

“I just… I don’t think I can live up to those expectations.”

“Ah, the dreaded label.”

The words catch Bobby’s ear. He has to try really, really hard to keep his eyes on the road and not ask for her to expand upon that statement, his brain immediately working overtime to work it out. Does _she_ not like labels? Has Bobby read the signs all wrong?

He’s not sure how he’d feel if all of this has just been a bit of fun for her—if it’s not destined to go any deeper.

“I’m not scared of a label,” Noah continues. “It was just way too soon for the marriage and kids talk.”

“That does sound like Hannah.”

“And I want those things. A lot, you know? I’m that kind of bloke. But I wonder if that’s what she likes instead of… well, _me_.”

“You think she’s latching on to the first guy that’s both into her _and_ looking for a long-term thing?”

Noah shrugs, refusing to meet anyone’s eye. “Maybe. I don’t know. Someone that into romance novels is always going to have a skewed perspective.”

“Just see how it goes, yeah?” MC says softly, trying to comfort him. “I know Hannah, and you’re right, she probably does have some grandeur ideas about romance, but I also know she genuinely likes you.”

Noah doesn’t reply, just stays quiet until Bobby pulls up to his flat and wishes everyone goodbye. Once he’s gone, the good vibes that’d existed between Bobby and MC go with him, as if Noah was a buffer for Bobby’s sudden doubt.

But, if Bobby knows anything about women and relationships—and he’s not sure he does, in all honesty—he knows he can’t just sit around anymore and wait for things to happen. He’d done that before, when they bet on the cookies, and chickening out hadn’t gotten him anything but an evening spent baking in his kitchen alone and more yearning. There’s no doubt about who and what he wants, only if it’s reciprocated.

“So, about that last bet,” he begins, already unsure where he’s going with this. Is it finally time?

MC raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering to bake me more cookies?”

“No,” he scoffs. “I don’t bake cookies for people who keep secrets from me.”

A bark of laughter escapes her. “Oh, come off it already!”

“Well, in my defense, I never wanted to bake them to begin with.”

“I know. You said as much.”

“That’s… that’s not what I mean.”

Blue eyes pin him to his seat and he can feel the anxiety creeping in, feels his skin flush as the adrenaline kicks in. “What _did_ you mean, then?”

“I was—” He takes a deep breath, urging himself to just throw caution to the wind. “My condition was going to be that, if I won, I got to take you on a date.”

Silence.

Agonizing, terrifying silence.

Despite what scripture may say, there’s nothing freeing about the truth. There’s only fear and anxiety and the sound of Bobby’s blood in his ears. And he wants to take the words back as soon as they’re out, wants to go back to the easy, fun banter between them, but now there’s a giant wall between them courtesy of him.

“Oh,” is all she says.

He’s parked outside her flat now, the street noise the only soundtrack to this awkward declaration. “Yeah,” he replies, anxiety pricking at his skin once again. He’s nauseous. Part of him wants to disappear into the seat of the car, the other part thinks disappearing forever might be nice, too.

“I don’t—”

_Date coworkers_ Bobby finishes in his head. Rahim had said that once and he’d never forgotten it, just swallowed it down and hoped he might be the exception. Hope had been a dangerous thing, clearly—he can’t think of a single time he’d been the exception, yet he’d filled his mind with all these silly ideas.

“I don’t think I would’ve said no.”

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Oh.”

Relief washes over him and, embarrassingly, he just wants to cry. Instead, he puts his confidence back on and reaches over to grab her knee. “Let’s do it, then. You and me. A proper date, not eating shitty takeaway pizza at mine at one-o’clock in the morning.”

A shy smile looks almost out of place on her face. “I liked the one-A.M. takeaway pizza, but something a bit fancier sounds nice, too.”

“Well, that makes it easier for me,” Bobby says. “How’s ten-o’clock shitty takeaway pizza sound?”

MC rolls her eyes, but the smile doesn’t leave. In fact, it gets bigger. “Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> As always, comments/concerns/feedback are always welcome.
> 
> For my fellow Americans, please go vote if you're able!
> 
> Love you all. <3


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